


Weaving My Heartstrings

by arms_full_of_hyacinths



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Archives Gang Is Scooby Gang Change My Mind, Archives Sleepover, Canon-Typical Horror, Canon-Typical Worms and Spiders, Domestic Fluff, Everyone Gets To Have Nice Things But There Are Some Screams Along The Way, F/F, F/M, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Knitting Is A Love Language, M/M, Non-Canonical Statements, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:47:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 65,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26650906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arms_full_of_hyacinths/pseuds/arms_full_of_hyacinths
Summary: At least he was someone. Someone who could deal with the spiders. That was probably the source of the nerves unspooling like magnetic tape to fill Jon’s stomach with buzzing static butterflies.Yes, Martin was much bigger than a spider. He was probably the kind of person who cupped them in his hands and talked to them as he walked them out into the garden, which shouldn’t be giving Jon a burst of warm feeling at all, since his preferred method of spider disposal was simply to squash them on sight.Martin likes Jon almost as much as Jon hates spiders. When a statement from an institute employee sends them spiraling into the center of a complicated web, they'll need to rely on each other if they want to make it out alive.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James/Tim Stoker
Comments: 410
Kudos: 443





	1. Step Into My Corner

**Author's Note:**

> Your feedback fuels me; I am an Archive-Of-Our-Ownivist and I eat comments and kudos for breakfast.
> 
> Content Warnings and disturbing sections marked per chapter (in case you'd like to skip the horror and read this as slow-burn fluff). Expect mild body horror, mild worms, and extreme spiders. 
> 
> Complete as of December 17th <3 Thank you for reading!

Jon huddled in one corner of the bustling pub, a pint of barely half-decent beer clenched in his fist. He wasn’t even sure why he’d agreed to attend the little… “office shindig”, as Tim had so creatively described it. It wasn’t like he had nothing better to do on a Friday night. The institute still held piles and piles of uncategorized statements, and since he couldn’t trust any of his assistants to get the job done right on their own, the only way he was ever going to get any peace down there was by working overtime and weekends until it was all sorted out according to his specifications.

He’d tried to delegate some of the work, of course. It hadn’t gone well. Even from his cramped corner of the pub he could see his archival assistants getting up to exactly the kind of behavior that prevented them from being of any real help.

From the moment he’d arrived, Tim had been busy chugging pints, chatting up co-workers, matching people’s shots, and generally making himself the undeniable life of the party. He flitted from arm to arm like an unsettled bird with _highly_ ostentatious plumage. Jon, well, just didn’t get it. He tried not to judge. Really, he tried, it wasn’t actually any of his business what his co-workers got up to after hours. Jon didn’t even think he was jealous of Tim’s clear popularity. He truly couldn’t fathom why anyone would want to be surrounded by so much bustle. So much noise. So many pressing bodies, knocking elbows and laughing and chattering and dancing, filling up the room with an almost unbearable clamor and heat.

Tim was always getting distracted. That was the problem. While his, well, what other people probably perceived as his _charm_ made him an excellent choice for wooing police contacts and soothing angry statement-givers, Tim was rubbish at sorting and filing. He was always getting caught up in whatever box of files he happened to be carrying, forever wanting to skim over the names and make vaguely suggestive comments about their contents.

Just the other week, Tim had walked in on Jon recording a statement from a farmhand who’d watched a cow go wild and begin to eat itself. He’d just reached a particularly nasty part about the cow beginning to bite frantically at its own udders, gushing milk and blood, terrified eyes rolling like marbles in its skull. Tim had pushed through the door without knocking and _waggled his goddamn eyebrows_ at what Jon was reading.

“Wow, exciting stuff, boss,” he’d said, smug grin taking up far too much real estate on his face. Jon had to be honest, it was an objectively attractive face, even if he himself didn’t take much pleasure in looking at it. He’d taken even less pleasure in watching as Tim had turned his face to wink one eye with an exaggerated smirk. “Didn’t think you’d be into that sort of thing. Reckon you could teach me a thing or two? I’ve always been curious about how flexible—”

Jon had no other recourse but to throw himself out of his chair, leap across the room, and slam the door in Tim’s face. “I’m _recording_!” he’d shot back through the door, trying to make the venom in his voice excruciatingly clear.

Tim had laughed himself all the way down the hall. Jon had to start the recording over again from scratch. That was exactly why he couldn’t trust Tim, because Tim had a way of turning everything into a quip and getting all tangled up in his own little comedy routine. It just wasn’t efficient.

The problem with Sasha was never efficiency. Well, actually, maybe her efficiency was exactly the problem. Jon spotted Sasha sitting at the bar, arm-wrestling one of the scrawnier interns. With a final grunt, she slammed their first down into the wood, earning her a few sharp cheers from the people gathered around her. The intern groaned and fished out their wallet. Jon couldn’t spot the denomination of bill, but from the look on the intern’s face, it was a painfully high number. Almost immediately, another staff member slid in to take their seat across from Sasha.

Sasha got things done. She was efficient, she was effective, she was capable. Probably more capable than Jon, if he was honest. And that was exactly the problem. If he put her to the task of organizing files, she’d do it perfectly well. In fact, she’d probably come up with a better system of organization than Jon had begun to map out in his head. Then Jon would never, ever be able to find anything in the archives no matter how hard he tried, and he’d forever have to be bothering Sasha to help him figure it out.

Besides, Sasha’s expertise would be wasted on recording and filing. Her skills had to be put to use for research and investigations. He also got the sense that, though there was little resentment on her part, Sasha had probably been a better candidate for his position in the first place. Setting her to the task of basic filing would be… disrespectful, somehow.

Then, finally, there was a Martin. Jon suppressed the desire to roll his eyes to an invisible audience. There was always Martin. Fussy, bumbling Martin, who tried so hard to get the filing system straight but could never quite figure it out. For all his qualifications, Martin was clearly and severely under-prepared for work in the archives. A master’s degree in parapsychology, for god’s sake!

The man could barely keep his hands on the damn files. He was always dropping papers whenever Jon passed him in the hall, and sloshing tea when he brought it to Jon’s desk, and losing leads when Jon finally gave in and tossed him a scrap of real work to do.

It was almost infuriating. If Jon didn’t know better, he would have thought that Martin had stepped into the world of research with next to no experience and just… decided to give it a go.

Earlier, Jon had spotted Martin bumping into a burly woman from the I.T. department and nearly knocking her drink clean out of her hand. She hadn’t actually seemed upset about it. Martin, of course, had launched into a stream of stuttering apologies.

Jon glanced around the pub, wondering where Martin was at that moment and what sort of mess he was making for himself. He finally spotted the man pressed up into the room’s opposite corner, nervously clutching a pint. Jon scowled and consciously loosened his grip on his own drink.

He let his gaze rest on Martin, ready to continue his satisfyingly judgmental stint of people-watching by critiquing his outfit as a statement on his performance at the office.

Martin looked over at him. Their eyes met. Martin smiled one of his daft, friendly little Martin-y smiles and raised one of his hands in a stilted wave. Jon simply nodded back.

Tim was escorting the very same intern who Sasha had trounced in arm-wrestling towards a secluded booth across the pub, and Jon was about to turn and observe when he realized that he’d made a terrible mistake. Martin had apparently interpreted his dismissive nod as “hey there, friend/fellow co-worker, feel free to interact with me” instead of the “hello, fellow human, I acknowledge your existence and our mutual acquaintanceship” it was meant to be, and was headed across the room to join Jon in his corner.

Jon also came to the unfortunate realization, as he watched Martin cross the room, that there wasn’t a lot of pleasant sniping judgement to be had where Martin’s outfit was concerned. The man wore a fitted blue button-down that hugged the curves of his body and a pair of nice slacks. He also wore a cozy cardigan which looked, to Jon’s eyes, possibly hand-knitted and certainly very comfortable. It was a soothing neutral color.

Martin tugged the cardigan closer around himself as he came to a stop in front of Jon. Jon realized instantly that _his_ corner didn’t have room for two people to stand in it with any respectable distance between them, and he found himself edging sideways, automatically making room for Martin to slip in beside him.

“Hello, Jon,” Martin chirped, sounding a bit out of breath. “Didn’t think I’d see you tonight!”

Jon clutched his pint a little tighter. “Martin. Ah, yes. I don’t usually attend these… gatherings.”

“Oh, well, yeah. I noticed. Ha. I mean, not that I like, look out for you,” he stammered, his eyes flying up towards the ceiling, “just that, hm, yeah. Sorry. Anyway, you’re here tonight!”

“Yes. I am.”

Martin took a sudden swig of his beer, wincing a bit as he swallowed. “So, any, um, particularly interesting statements today?”

Jon had been searching frantically for a way to extricate himself from the awkward small talk, but suddenly realized that what Martin was offering him was a way to continue his work at the archives despite having made the terrible decision to attend an office party. He’d looked over a statement just before leaving that required a minor bit of follow-up and would probably involve a lot of trawling through phone books. That was exactly the kind of work he could farm out to Martin without wasting anyone’s time or worrying that it would have consequences when Martin unerringly managed to mess it up in some dramatic way.

“Actually, yes! You know, I’m glad you’re here Martin, I was just—”

Jon could have sworn that Martin _wheezed_.

“A- a – ah?” the other man stuttered, completely interrupting Jon’s train of thought. “Well. Oh! Well, I’m, I’m really glad you’re here too. I mean, I really am! It was nice of Tim and Sasha to invite me, but I don’t usually talk to, uh, to many people at these events. It’s—it was nice of you to say hi.”

Well, that was harmless enough. Jon supposed he could understand Martin’s discomfort. He was rapidly coming to the decision that if Tim brought up any future office parties, he would simply decline. That reminded him of something else. “Doesn’t—isn’t everyone invited to these, generally? I mean, Tim invited me as well.”

Martin blinked. Under the warm glow of the lights, Jon noticed that his face was flushed. He wasn’t sure if it was from tipsiness or embarrassment, but he found it difficult to look away, especially when Martin smiled just a fraction and one of his rosy cheeks dimpled ever so slightly.

“Yeah, I guess so. But you know. Me included.”

Jon nodded, slowly. “Well, yes. _Everyone_ couldn’t leave you out, obviously.”

The flush on Martin’s cheeks deepened considerably, and Jon was struck by the sudden realization that he wasn’t making himself very clear.

“Thank you,” Martin said, in a voice so soft and unsure that Jon didn’t have the heart to offer up a correction. “I—I really appreciate it.”

Jon opened his mouth, impatient to finally get back to the case file at hand, but was suddenly and viciously interrupted by a finger being pointed directly at his face. Attached to the finger was an arm and attached to the arm was a woman who worked in artifact storage. The flush on her face was unmistakably alcoholic.

“You!” she said, as if Jon had any idea what she might mean by that. “You!”

“Me?” he choked, feeling rather targeted.

It was a welcome relief when Martin edged forward, his broad shoulder partially blocking Jon from view.

The woman didn’t seem to notice. “You work down there, yeah? In the archives, like? An’ you—you know about _spooky_ shit. Right? ‘S your job?”

Again, Jon opened his mouth, and again, he was interrupted.

“This isn’t work,” Martin cut in, voice firmer than Jon had honestly thought it could be. “It’s a party. If you’d like to make a statement, come into the office on Monday.”

“But! I saw some spooky shit! _Real_ spooky. Gotta talk about it.” She squinted at Jon, craning her neck to peer around Martin’s shoulder. “C’n you help? Talk?”

Jon rested a hand on Martin’s shoulder and felt him freeze. The other man let out a whooshing breath. Jon breathed in at the same time and found that he could smell something; a warm, gentle scent that reminded him of Earl Grey.

“Thank you, Martin,” he said, firm but polite. “But I do work in the archives. I’d be happy to take your statement, if you’re in a state to give it. It’s… no bother.” He wasn’t sure why he’d added that last bit. He just didn’t want Martin to think he was being inconvenienced and was in need of further, uh, defending.

“Alright then,” Martin murmured. His voice was strained.

Jon realized his hand was still resting on Martin’s arm. He jerked it back, immediately shoving it into his pocket. “Yes, so, shall we, uh, sit down somewhere? I believe I have a tape recorder in my bag.”

The woman didn’t respond, but she did spin around and totter off towards one of the open booths. Jon stepped after her, conscious of the fact that he was very clearly abandoning Martin. He cleared his throat. “Well, um. Thank you for that, Martin.”

“Thanks. I mean, no problem.” His voice was low again.

Jon met his eyes for a second, and there was something in them. Something soft, dreamlike, but still… focused. Almost intense.

Out of habit, Jon pushed his glasses farther up his nose. “Well, I’ll see you Monday.”

“I’m really glad you came, Jon. It was good to see you.”

“Ah.” Jon swallowed. He was pretty sure Martin had said that already. “Yes, you too. Uh—” his mind ran frantically, searching for something to say that would be both politely affirming and yet also final enough that he could chase after the woman bobbing and weaving her way through the drunken fray. “Nice cardigan. Goodbye.”

He hurried off, only glancing back slightly when he heard Martin call out “Bye, Jon!” in return. Martin was smiling at him, broad and joyful. Jon wasn’t exactly sure why.


	2. On Her Visit To The Parlor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin gets embarrassed. Jon takes a statement. The first anchored threads begin to tug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A sprinkling of Martin and a spronkling of OC horror! This chapter gets a teeny bit explicitly creepy, but you can skip the passage that starts with "Yukti heaved in a shuddering breath. Jon panicked for a second, worried she might be crying, but when she looked up at him her eyes were dry," and ends with "'So I just went to sleep. And I woke up in the morning and went to work.'" to dodge the explicitly creepy part without missing any plot. Or you could read it and appreciate my attempt at soft MAG-esque horror! 
> 
> Huge thanks to those who commented on the last chapter, I love seeing your feedback and hope people are interested in reading more <3
> 
> TW for this chapter for spiders and mild body horror, mostly in the skippable section mentioned above!

Martin felt a bit like he was melting, and it had nothing to do with the alcohol spooling through his system. What _was_ that? Jon had invited Martin into his space. He’d been… nice? Maybe the nicest he’d been to Martin’s face since Martin had taken the job as archival assistant. He’d said— _Jon_ was _glad_ Martin had come?

He’d even complimented Martin’s shirt. The shirt that Martin bought especially for the party, after hours pouring over the oversized racks and spending far too much on just one shirt and hoping against hope that maybe he’d get to wear it in front of Jon. And Jon had actually noticed. Martin had pretty much given up hope of Jon ever noticing anything about him. Anything nice, anyway. He’d resigned himself to a work life that mostly involved learning on the fly, constantly panicking, making copious amounts of tea to soothe his own anxiety, and nursing a debilitating crush on his boss.

It wasn’t so bad, really. Even if everybody else in the whole word seemed to know. Sasha was always gentle, always professional, with gifts of understanding nods and supportive smiles whenever Jon was particularly snappish.

Tim teased him relentlessly about it. Which, Martin supposed, was fair. It was a bit ridiculous to fancy someone who’d never spent time with Martin outside of work except once on his birthday, and even then Jon had been more interested in lecturing them about emulsifiers than in learning anything about Martin’s personal life. It was just that Jon was so, well, _endearing_ somehow. He made Martin think of a kitten, snarling and hissing at anyone who got too close, but almost sweeter because he was fussy. For all his monologuing, Jon had looked positively sated as he licked the last of the ice cream from his spoon, a barely-there smile tugging at his lips.

Martin was almost certainly biased. He didn’t just like the way Jon’s eyes glowed when morning sunlight hit him on his way into work, he liked the wrinkles tugging at their corners and the way Jon tried to rub away his dark circles when he thought no one was looking. He liked the gray strands that streaked through Jon’s hair, giving him an air of dignity. Martin was pretty sure he was the only one in the institute who liked Jon’s accent even when he purposefully affected poshness. The posturing was cute, in the same way that Jon’s huffed sighs and rolled eyes were just a little charming.

Obviously, Martin wished he could hear Jon speak without an undercurrent of frustration in his voice. He was dying to know what it’d be like to spend time with Jon outside of work. But as much as Martin wanted to see Jon without his walls up, wanted permission to fuss over him, wanted to know what his name sounded like on Jon’s lips without irritation—well, that particular train of thought crashed as Martin’s brain hooked a sharp turn towards Jon’s lips.

Yeah, Martin pretty much deserved any teasing Tim made time for. Before the party, he’d cornered Martin outside, tugging suggestively at the collar of his nice new shirt.

“Dressing up, Martin? Trying to make an impression on a certain coworker with a certain stick up his ass? If it was anyone else at the institute, I’d tell them not to bother. Pretty sure the boss man’s blind to anything that can’t get filed. Saw him almost pour a cup of tea into a drawer the other day, swear on my life.”

“But you aren’t telling _me_ not to bother?” Martin asked, in a valiant attempt to skirt Tim’s ribbing.

The other man just winked at him. “‘Course not. If your weird obsession with the human incarnation of reading glasses gets you all dressed up for parties, I call it a necessary sacrifice on your part for the good of humanity’s collective view. Not everyone who works in the archives is blind.”

Tim hadn’t even stuck around to hear Martin stutter. As nice as it had been to get a compliment from Tim, Martin knew that praise and flirtation dripped from Tim’s lips as easily as breaths did. A single compliment from Jon was like… Martin almost thought _like a falling star_ , which was a line so cheesy he would have blushed to write it down in his poetry notebook at home, and settled for the vague idea of something rare and precious.

Martin wasn’t really sure he wanted to be hopeful. It seemed like the kind of thing that could only end in hurt when he inevitably realized that Jon would never feel the same, and was totally out of his league, and wasn’t even going to want to speak to Martin if it all came out in the open. On the other hand—Jon had liked his shirt.

Maybe they could work from there?

* * *

Jon had given up on nursing his pint. He didn’t even like beer, and Ms. Mangal had clearly done quite enough drinking for the both of them. It was becoming clear to him what a mistake he’d made in letting himself be dragged away from his corner. Even Martin’s awkward company would have been vastly preferable to listening impatiently as Ms. Mangal stumbled her way towards something approaching a statement. It didn’t help that the subject matter was one of his least favorite topics.

“Yes, I am familiar with the concept of spiders. Now, Ms. Mangal—”

“ _Told_ you to call me _Yukti_! ‘S my name! Who’re you, my nan or somethin’?”

Jon grit his teeth. “Yukti. Are you planning to give a statement, or simply to waste my time?” He had already dug the tape recorder out from the bottom of his messenger bag, and he lay it on the table between them with enough force that it turned on almost of its own volition.

“Dun have to be so _rude_ about it,” Yukti grumbled, resting her cheek on the table.

“Statement of Yukti Mangal,” Jon growled, “regarding spiders.”

She turned her head to look up at him, face still pressed against varnished wood, squishing her nose and forehead out of place. “Not _exactly_ spiders. ‘S a bloke. My neighbor, like. And they’re _his_ spiders.”

“Statement of Yukti Mangal regarding her neighbor and _his_ spiders.” He raised an eyebrow, challenging her to speak up again, but she rolled her face back down and hummed through squashed lips. Jon cleared his throat. “Statement begins.”

Yukti heaved herself back up into a sitting position, looking a bit less drunk and a good bit more morose. “Right, well. Thanks for giving me a chance to say my peace.

“Personally, I’ve never really gotten the fuss about spiders. I mean, I can see why people get creeped out by them. Evolution left us with a lot of stupid fears, if you ask me. Did you know that even kids who grow up in cities, far away from any large animals, still list things like bears and sharks among their greatest fears? Isn’t that ridiculous? They’re so much likelier to be hit by an automobile, or get shot, or die of cancer. Most of them have never even seen a bear. Definitely not in the wild. There’s just something in the bottom of the pit in their stomach calling up what they’re supposed to be scared of. Be afraid of the dark, not of getting melanoma from a sunburn. Be afraid of worms and spiders, not heart attacks.

“My last girlfriend was terrified of spiders. I tried to tell her there was nothing they could do to hurt her, that humans are barely on their radar, that they’re good for keeping away the bugs, and that even if a venomous one found its way inside she’d probably never see it and definitely wouldn’t be weak enough to die from a bite. She just told me it wasn’t that she worried the spiders would bite her. It was the way they moved, their thin legs skittering across the walls and into all the little dark corners where she couldn’t watch them. Honestly, it was nice to play the hero and cup huntsmen in my hands. They’re not even spiders, you know, not really. I didn’t care. I wasn’t afraid. But I—I think I understand, now, what scared her.

“Anyway, we had to split when I moved to London. I’ve been living in my new flat about six months. Some friend of a friend—Annabelle, I think her name was—was moving out, and she got me in contact with the landlord. I met my neighbor, Calvin, pretty soon after moving in.”

“Full names, please,” Jon snapped.

“Yeah, whatever. Calvin Tang. He seemed nice. I don’t know, a bit reserved, I guess. But he was sweet. He brought by a casserole to welcome me to the building, and I don’t usually even like casserole, but it was pretty good. I sort of thought we could be friends from the beginning.

“Cal made all his own clothes, and I thought that was really cool. He could weave and sew _and_ cook? I was pretty determined for us to get closer. I, uh, tried to bake him thank-you cookies. I burned them. But, like, the smoke set off the fire alarm, and we all had to run out into the hallway and wait for the landlord to deal with it, and I had the smoking sheet of cookies with me. And he actually ate one. Like, took it off the tray and bit it and told me thanks for trying. He didn’t even spit it out. It was nice. Like I hadn’t tried for nothing.

“We started seeing more of each other after that. I’d drag him out to the pub, or to lunch at the chippy down the street on my days off. He’d stop by with gifts if he went to a specialty market. It was nice. I didn’t have a lot of friends, being so new to the place. And I really liked spending time with Cal. He was a good guy. I mean, he _is_ a good guy! I just… well, I haven’t really wanted to reach out since it happened. And I mean, I feel terrible about it, like I’m just abandoning him when clearly he needs help. I guess maybe that’s why I wanted to talk to you? In case you know how to help him?

“Anyway, we were talking one day and I sort of mentioned off-hand that if he ever needed any spiders taken out of his flat, he could just call me. I was mostly joking. But he got this sort of weird look and asked if actually I could maybe come over and check something out. And I thought—I don’t know what I thought.”

She flushed, rubbing her thumb over the handle of her pint. “Like he was asking me over, or something. Anyway, we were friends. I trusted him. So I followed him inside. It was the first time I’d really been over to his flat, even though we were neighbors, and I thought it was really nice. Sort of sparse, but clean and warm enough, and he had gorgeous rugs hanging on the walls. He put the kettle on before showing me to the back room. His flat had one more room than mine, and he’d turned it into a sort of craft space, with paint and glitter and loose threads scattered all over the desk. It took me a minute to see it; Cal had to point it out. It didn’t look too sinister. Just a bundle of wooly cobwebs pressed right up into a corner.

“There were a couple of tiny spiders scuttling over the surface. I just sort of shrugged at him. I mean, I’m not afraid of spiders, but I’m no expert either. It’s not like I’ve done a lot of arachnid research or anything, right? So I just guessed maybe it was like a nest or an egg sac or something. Told him he should probably get rid of it or at least have it moved. In fact, I offered to call pest control for him. He just shook his head at me. Said he’d, I don’t know, feel bad about displacing them. Since they were harmless, anyway. And I mean, I wasn’t gonna disagree with that, was I? That’s what I’ve always thought too.

“So we had a cuppa and a chat and he sent me home with some shortbread biscuits. I don’t know, it was nice. It felt normal. I didn’t run into Cal in the hallways for a while, just figured he was busy. And then… well, he didn’t come knocking either. And it didn’t seem like any of the other neighbors had heard from him. I wasn’t thinking about the spiders at all. I mostly worried it was something mental, since Cal had always seemed like a bit of a melancholy type. Guess I was worried he might be having some sort of depressive episode.

“I sent him a couple texts, but he never responded or picked up my calls. I put off knocking for a few days longer. I feel awful about it now. Like, I know we were friends, I know I should’ve just reached out. It’s just… I was worried I’d made him uncomfortable, somehow, when I came over. Didn’t want to push too far. Finally, just a couple days ago, I worked up the nerve to go over to his apartment. The door was shut. I realized he must not have been out in days, since there were perfect little spiderwebs built up in the corners of the doorframe.

“I knocked on the door. I could hear the sound reverberating through his flat, and there was something that followed it. A sort of scraping, scuttling noise I didn’t recognize. But he didn’t answer the door. I checked my phone, and he still hadn’t replied to any of my texts, but I shot him another just in case. I knew Cal kept his ringer on. There were no more sounds from behind the door. I figured maybe he was just out, then, on some kind of trip hadn’t mentioned beforehand. Or maybe he was so out of it he’d let his phone die without noticing.

“So I knocked again. The scuttling came back, a little louder, and I heard something heavy hit the floor. It was almost like footsteps, but sharper. Each sound clicked more than shoes on wood had any right to. The noise came to a stop just behind Cal’s door. I felt—bad, somehow, and I’m not exactly sure why. It’s not like I was guilty. I mean, I was just knocking on my friend’s door. We were _neighbors_. I had every right, didn’t I? But he still didn’t answer. I knocked again. My throat was so tight, and I had this awful churning feeling in my stomach. Finally, I heard the latch click. The door swung open a couple inches.

“The chain was still engaged, and I peered in through the gap. Cal was staring back at me. His pupils were all blown up and so, so dark. They almost filled the whites of his eyes. His hair was plastered to his skin with sweat, flattened down over his forehead and cheeks. He was panting just a little. His skin had gone ashy and grey. I, uh—I tried to ask him how he was doing, and he just stared at me. Like he was sizing me up. Like he didn’t _recognize_ me.

“Finally, he looked down. I remember exactly what he said. ‘Yukti,’ he said, ‘I’m sick. You don’t want to catch it. Please leave.’ And I—I—I swear to god I was gonna say something. Like, I meant to tell him I was there for him. I meant to offer to call him an ambulance, or make him some soup, or just keep him company over the phone. But then he—”

Yukti heaved in a shuddering breath. Jon panicked for a second, worried she might be crying, but when she looked up at him her eyes were dry. They were full of a nameless horror that clogged Jon’s throat with its intensity.

“He looked at me again. And a dark little thing came creeping down from his eyelid, floating on the surface of his eye. I thought it was an eyelash. Then it moved. And there was more of it. I just watched in silent horror as a small spider wriggled its way out of Calvin’s eye, legs spasming from its trembling thorax. It skittered down the corner of his eye, trailing his nose like a little black tear until it—it—ran up into his left nostril. He didn’t even flinch.

“What was I supposed to do? I just stood there. Cal raised his hand and he—I don’t know. I think he tried to wave? But it was this sort of jerky, wretched movement, like his muscle had cramped and jostled his arm into position. Then he slammed the door. And I just stood there, tears rolling down my face, as the skittering behind the door got louder and louder. I don’t know how long it was before I managed to turn away. I just know I walked back to my own flat as slowly as I could. When I got there, I checked every fucking corner of every single room. There weren’t any spiders anywhere.

“So I just went to sleep. And I woke up in the morning and went to work. I didn’t visit Cal’s flat again. He—he sent me a message, after I left. I woke up to the notification. I still haven’t checked it, but maybe—”

Yukti pushed her phone across the table, open to the messaging app. Sure enough, there was a single unread notification, buried under updates from friends and coworkers.

“I can give you my address,” she added, “or anything else you need. I just need to—to do something. I want to help him.”

Jon tapped the notification, and the message came up. It was just gibberish, he told himself. There was no reason to feel disturbed. _Yuhotu_ , the message read, _is soynr tbuy ohu habe sto esty afewa_.

“It’s just a keysmash,” he said, keeping his voice level and sliding the phone back to Yukti. “If your neighbor is as sick as he claims, I’m sure it was difficult for him to respond to your messages. I wouldn’t bother him again until he’s recovered.”

Yukti really did look like she might cry then, hunching her shoulders in towards her ears, chin and lips wrinkling up into a twisted pout.

“But,” Jon rushed out, “I’ll put your address on file for investigation. We’ll try to contact Mr. Tang and do some follow-up. Of course, we’ll keep you updated should we find anything.”

Yukti chugged the rest of her pint in one gulp and clasped his hand. “ _Thank you_ , mate. Thank you.”

“Um, yes.” Jon quickly withdrew his hand. “Statement ends.”

He scribbled Yukti’s address on a cocktail napkin, and she stumbled off towards the bar for a refill. Jon scanned the room again. Would it be inappropriate to ask one of his assistants to start doing preliminary research into Calvin Tang? Obviously, they wouldn’t be visiting him so close to midnight, but they could gather some information on his family and residence to prepare beforehand.

Sasha was still at the bar but appeared to have moved on from arm-wrestling. Jon rose and took a step towards her. Just then, Tim appeared at her side holding two overflowing shot glasses and slammed them down on the bar. She laughed, and Tim wrapped an arm around her shoulders, pressing his face into her neck. Sasha patted his hair with a smile.

Feeling distinctly like he was watching something he shouldn’t be, Jon pivoted away and searched for other familiar faces. Ah, yes. There he was, still waiting in Jon’s corner, soft smile on his face as he watched people bustle past.

Martin would do just fine.


	3. Down The Waterspout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon goes investigating. Martin tags along. Or maybe Jon tags along. Anyway, they're having a weirdly fun time with it, especially considering the decor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huuuuge thanks to those who've been reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!! As much fun as fanfic is, I usually try to focus on original content, but your feedback and support make me want to prioritize this project more. 
> 
> Just a sprinkling of non-canon spooky in this chapter, so nothing specific to skip!

Jon failed to catch Martin’s eye as he stormed across the pub towards his rightful corner, which was fine. Just fine. “Martin!” he called, already formulating in his head the exact words he would use to make the tedium of tracking down Calvin Tang sound like important work Martin should be happy to do.

The other man didn’t give any sign of hearing him. He just kept staring off into the middle distance with a faint smile playing across his full lips. One of Martin’s hands fidgeted with the buttons on his shirt.

Jon usually didn’t spare much time to think about Martin’s hands. They were always in motion. Martin was continually shuffling papers and tapping his nails on teacups and reaching up to brush locks of curly hair behind his ears. Actually, Jon wasn’t sure when or how he’d noticed all that. He also wasn’t sure if he’d ever noticed how expansive Martin’s hands were. They looked strong, pudgy fingers still flexing around the handle of his empty pint glass.

If they held hands, Martin’s palm would probably envelop Jon’s fingers completely, cocooning him in a warm and secure hold. Jon consciously fought down the flush rising on his cheeks. Martin was his employee. Wherever that particular thought had come from (probably from what little he’d managed to drink before his night was interrupted by bumbling assistants and sloshed statement-givers), it wasn’t an appropriate thought to be having. Especially not in the workplace!

Caught up in his own embarrassment, Jon realized he’d crossed the room just in time to avoid bumping right into Martin. Somehow, he still hadn’t been noticed. Martin’s eyes were glazed over with something soft and fond. Jon found himself scanning the crowded room follow Martin’s gaze, but he just seemed to be staring at a random point on the ceiling. Well. That was strange, but at least Jon knew that Martin wasn’t busy.

“Martin,” he repeated, placing his fingertips on the other man’s wrist.

Martin _jumped_ , fumbling his glass. “What the—” he croaked.

Acting mostly on instinct, Jon dropped to one knee and caught the heavy glass as it slipped from Martin’s hand, grunting at the impact of his leg on the wooden floor. “Martin,” he groaned, rising back up to standing with the glass in his hands and frustration twisting his face.

He hadn’t realized how close they were. Martin was just—there, right there, looking down at Jon with wide eyes. Something pointed and cruel died on Jon’s lips.

He stepped back and cleared his throat as if that were words enough, handing the glass back to Martin with business-like precision.

“There you are, then,” he said instead.

“Ah, s- sorry. Thanks. Sorry about that.”

“I could use your assistance,” Jon pressed on, wary of being caught up in another stammered back-and-forth. “Ms. Mangal’s statement was essentially nonsense, and frankly nothing of enough importance to waste institute resources on, but nevertheless we have a duty to follow up. Once you return to the archives, I’d very much appreciate if you could do some background work on her neighbor, one Calvin Tang.” He held the cocktail napkin and the tape recorder out for Martin to take.

Martin’s large fingers brushed against Jon’s knuckles as he accepted the materials. “Right! Yeah, of course, I’m on it. You can count on me.”

“I’m sure I can,” Jon drawled, eyes already glued to the exit. At least the party hadn’t been a _total_ waste. Not only had he taken a statement, he’d been able to pass work off to Martin without cutting into valuable time at the archives. “I’ll be leaving, then. Lucky I ran into you.”

He could have sworn he heard Martin choking on something behind him, but he was already striding toward the door.

“Goodnight, Jon!” Martin called after him.

Jon just raised his hand in a half-wave and hurried away from the party as quickly as his legs could stride down the institute’s abandoned halls.

* * *

Martin knocked on the door to Jon’s office, knuckles contorting awkwardly around the mug of tea he’d just brewed. Even after months of working together, Martin wasn’t sure exactly how Jon took his tea. The other man never seemed to be paying attention when he asked. He’d tried just about everything. Sleepytime vanilla, powdered matcha, white, orange rooibos, mint, English breakfast, peach-ginger, PG Tips, pu-erh, jasmine, oolong, genmaicha. He’d scoured supermarkets and specialty stores.

At first, Jon had just grunted wordlessly at whatever Martin brought him, but as time went on Martin started to parse his boss’s moods a little better. Jon liked Earl Grey in the mornings, the punch of caffeine sparking something in his tired eyes. He would take a deep breath of the bergamot oil curling in its steam before his first sip.

In the afternoon, something like genmaicha or sencha was best. A grounding earthiness that let Jon settle back deeper into his chair and ghost out a weary thanks. Late nights at the institute tended to send Jon running into the open arms of bitter black coffee, which made him jittery and liable to snap at anything Martin did, so white tea or jasmine was a reliable ploy to settle him down.

Jon had been in a surprisingly good mood at the party the night before, but it was another frantic morning at the institute. Martin held a cup of Earl Grey. He’d over-brewed it a bit, so the caffeine could settle in as Jon wrinkled his nose and flexed his muscles, waking him up before the workday got fully up to speed. Martin didn’t usually add much milk or sugar to Jon’s tea, since the delicate responses was trying to pry out were contingent on taste, but the first mug of morning tea was all about function. He’d added a touch of cream and two spoonful of sugar to make up for the over-steeping.

“Come in!” came Jon’s gravelly voice through the door, throat still shaking off the edges of restless sleep.

Martin _really_ liked Jon’s voice. More often than not he heard it midway through a statement, sounding out the consonants of some roiling horror. It didn’t matter. The throaty rumble of his thanks in the morning before a sip of tea, the familiar exasperation as he lectured an assistant, even the edge of sharp frustration in his voice when the fuse of his temper was lit. Martin just liked hearing Jon talk.

“Brought you some tea,” he said, slipping in and setting the mug firmly on Jon’s desk, anxious to avoid a repeat of the previous night’s pint glass incident.

“Oh.” Jon blinked at the mug over the sheaf of folders he’d been glaring at. “Thank you, Martin.” He picked up the mug and inhaled softly, then took a long sip.

Martin tried very, very hard not to focus on the soft dip of Jon’s throat as he swallowed. “I a- also did some follow-up? I mean, on that case you asked me about? Calvin Tang?” He offered the thin stack of papers to Jon.

Jon plucked them from Martin’s hand with a noise of detached interest and began to scan the carefully typed lines of research notes. Martin had attached copies of a rental agreement, relevant information from social media profiles, and a few other documents mostly related to the apartment building itself.

“You did this over the weekend?” Jon asked, flipping back to the beginning to re-check Martin’s attached summary note.

“Uh.” Martin flushed. He didn’t usually work on weekends. Who would work weekends when their job was already so research-intensive, already demanded so much from them and their limited reserves every day of the week? Other than Jon, who never seemed to stop working, and who had trusted Martin to help him in some small way. “Yeah, well, you seemed like you wanted it done pretty quickly. So I just… just figured I’d get some things out of the way for you.”

Jon hummed thoughtfully and shuffled the papers on his desk. “Well done, then,” he said to the air in front of him, eyes not even resting on Martin, “we’ve got something to work with.”

It almost hurt, the warm pricking sensation that ran over Martin’s skin. “Yeah,” he murmured. “Yeah, uh, of course. That’s my job. Is there—can I do anything else for you?”

Another hum as Jon ignored Martin’s sudden blush. “Well, we’ll need to follow up on the statement, of course. I suppose we should pay a visit to Mr. Tang. We have his address, and confirmation that he exists. There isn’t much more reconnaissance to be done unless you happened to dig up a ‘breathed in too many spiders and died’ certificate.”

He looked put off by Martin’s sudden burst of laughter.

“Um, no, no such luck,” Martin giggled, pressing his hands together against his chest. “I definitely would have noticed. But, uh—we? So we’ll be visiting him together?”

Jon’s brows knit together, twisting his face into adorably pensive confusion. “Oh? Well, of course somebody has to follow up on the statement, and as you offered, I thought—well, I suppose if you think you’ll need… back-up, I have some free time this morning.”

Suddenly, Martin was very worried he’d misinterpreted something. Jon looked uncomfortable with the idea. He didn’t mean to be an inconvenience to Jon. In fact, he hated getting in the way of the other man’s work. It usually ended in a stomach-churning glare from Jon or a pitiful glance from Sasha, and Martin wasn’t actually sure which of those hurt more. Still, Jon was getting up and grabbing his coat. It almost sounded… well, nice? To have Jon come with him on an investigative outing, the two of them facing down fear together.

Maybe they could even get lunch afterwards!

* * *

Yukti Mangal had given Jon very few details on the building in which she and Calvin Tang rented flats, but just as he had suspected, the whole place seemed perfectly normal in every way. The halls were lined with threadbare carpets and fluorescent lights buzzed contentedly from pock-marked white ceilings. Busy Londoners darted past them every so often, headed off to school or late workdays. Anonymous cloned doors were decorated with kitschy welcome mats and home-made name plates. The elevator made a noise of grinding effort as it lifted them up to the third floor. It wasn’t anybody’s dream home, but it certainly didn’t seem like a hotbed of supernatural activity, or even a truly bad place to live.

The people who passed by them met Jon’s eyes with weary smiles and nods. He found himself feeling, irrationally, like an intruder. It wasn’t his home. It was their territory. He and Martin were—right, yes, Martin was with him. They’d been asked to make a visit. Nobody actually cared who entered the building, and if they had the energy to care, well… Martin could probably cut an intimidating figure in a pinch. Possibly. Maybe. To some.

At least he was someone. Someone who wasn’t Jon, and could deal with—with the spiders, if there were any to be dealt with. That was probably the source of the nerves unspooling like magnetic tape to fill Jon’s stomach with buzzing static butterflies. Yes, Martin was much bigger than a spider. He was probably the kind of person who cupped them in his hands and talked to them as he walked them out into the garden, which shouldn’t be giving Jon a burst of warm feeling at all, since his preferred method of spider disposal was simply to squash them on sight with extreme prejudice.

Jon snuck a look back at his assistant. For someone doing follow-up house calls for work, Martin looked remarkably content. He said a quiet hello to every passing resident. He trailed dutifully behind Jon, a notebook tucked under his arm, his free hand worrying at the hem of his striped yellow jumper when he wasn’t using it to dispense friendly waves.

“Uh, Jon?” Martin spoke up, “Isn’t this it?”

He’d come to a stop in front of a door like any of the others that lined the hallway, and when Jon pivoted around he realized that the door in question was the one Yukti had numbered off as Calvin’s flat.

“Yes. Yes, right. Let’s get to it then.” He strode back to the door, standing shoulder to shoulder with Martin, and knocked before he could think better of it. The taller man was something of a… reassuring presence. Whatever strange disease had Mr. Tang acting so secretive and ominous, Jon didn’t actually think it would cause him to act violently. Still, _if_ anything were to happen. There was always Martin.

Nobody answered the door.

“Jon?” Martin asked again. “Do you, uh… in the corners?”

His gaze flickered up to the corners of the door-jam. Bundles of white web were caked into the edges and hinges of the flimsy door, as if to glue it shut. Strands of wispy thread dangled from some seams, indicating that the door had been opened since its last cleaning, but the build-up of dust and web tangled the tape in Jon’s stomach into knots.

When was the last time the door had been opened? When Yukti had made her final visit to Calvin, her last desperate attempt to get in contact with a profoundly sick man? Were there other doors covered in web throughout the building that he just hadn’t noticed? How many blasted spiders were in the old building, squeezing themselves into dark corners and perching just out of sight?

As if picking up on Jon’s thoughts, Martin shuddered. “Oh, god, you don’t think he’s like—dead in there, or something?”

Jon shrugged. “People die all the time, Martin. How should I know?” He knocked again.

“Well, all right, but we don’t find them dead in their flats ‘all the time’. I mean, at least _I_ don’t. How many corpses did you run into on the job last week, and what file cabinet are you keeping them in?”

Jon forced down a smile. Martin was just rambling because he was nervous, clearly. He rapped on the door again in an attempt to jostle those thoughts aside. How did Jon know how Martin felt? Was it because he himself was nervous?

Still, nobody answered, but Jon heard a rustling behind the door.

“Seriously, Jon,” Martin’s voice was rising in pitch, “d’you think he’s—”

“Not now, Martin.” He pressed one ear up against the wood. Sure enough, something was moving behind the door, making a repetitive scratching click. “Hello? Mr. Calvin Tang? Are you in there?”

There was a loud thud. Jon felt Martin tense beside him more than he saw it. He rapped his knuckles against the door one more time. “Mr. Tang? I’m with the Magnus Institute, we’re here to follow up on a statement involving you. Do you have a moment to answer some brief follow-up questions?”

The skittering sounds faded and the loud thump didn’t repeat itself.

“Mr. Tang?” Martin squeaked. “Your neighbors are worried about you. Can you give us a sign you’re all right in there?”

No response. The two of them stood in silence.

“Should we—?"Jon asked, reaching for the doorknob at the same time as Martin slammed his fist into the door.

Normally his instinct would have been to flinch, but instead he stood in shocked silence as Martin pounded against the wood.

“Calvin, _please_ let us know if you’re okay! Should we call 999? Do you need help? Is anybody even home?”

“Martin,” Jon began, turning to berate him for a distinct lack of professionalism. The door’s handle clicked as his wrist twisted. “Oh.”

“What? Oh, um, sorry Jon. Sorry. I’m just worried, I mean—”

“It’s unlocked.”

“O- oh.”

Jon twisted the handle again and pushed against the door. It swung open slowly, cobwebs ripping and tearing as it opened inwards.

“Is anyone home?” Martin called.

Jon fumbled for a light switch. He flicked it on. It was very dark inside the flat, and the dull glow that flickered into being did little to dispel the gloom. It was with a creeping horror that Jon realized there were un-shuttered windows in the flat. They’d been covered up with something else so that only the lightest glow of filtered sunset could pass through.

Martin gasped. “Are—is—did—oh my god, Jon, are those _webs_?”

He was about to nod. The substance covering the windows certainly looked like bunched up cobwebs. Then he realized that Martin wasn’t looking at the windows. Martin had turned back to stare at the doorway they’d just passed through. Jon spun around to face the same way.

It was, in fact, more cobwebs. Reams of them plastered to every corner of the doorway. That was why the door had opened so slowly—not rusted hinges or cramped carpeting. Jon had been ripping it through accumulated inches of dusty webbing.

He tried to respond, but only managed to croak out a stunted noise of shock.

Martin strode past him into the kitchen. “Calvin? Mr. Tang, are you in here?” He threw open the door to the bedroom and strode in. “Anybody there? Hello?”

Jon stood frozen near the entrance, wide eyes skimming over a sofa and an armchair and a television and an oven and a microwave and a lamp, all bundled up in such a thick layer of cobwebs that they almost looked like dust covers. Slowly, Jon made his way towards the other closed doorway. The cobwebs that glued it shut had already been torn from the wall. Gingerly, he took the handle and turned it. It clicked and swung open with no resistance.

The room was a mess. Multicolored string lay wrapped around splintered wood and hung from every surface. Cobwebs were wound around empty spools in a mockery of yarn. In one corner they were particularly thick. Jon edged closer, barely noticing as Martin ducked through the doorway behind him.

It was brighter in that side room that it had been in the rest of the flat. Jon could see the crisscrossing silk strings, wrapped over and around each other, torn down the center as if they’d been wrapped around something. Something large and heavy. Something that had fallen.

No spiders scuttled among the threads, and without the distraction of any moment Jon could make out a faint cast to the shape of the remaining web. The shape of a body.

“Martin,” Jon breathed, voice thick with fear. “I—I think he was in here, Martin.”

The other man groaned. “Yeah, he definitely _was_.” Jon turned and found Martin gazing out the open third-story window. “But I don’t think he is anymore.”


	4. Statement Of Ms. Muffet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon thinks there's something a little too familiar about their second statement in the case of Calvin Tang. Martin thinks Jon looks really good in his scarf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many thanks to everyone reading, commenting, bookmarking and leaving kudos!! I love hearing from you all <3 I'm headed back to school this week (on Zoom, anyway), but as long as you're still reading and supporting I'll still be writing!!

Jon’s labored breathing didn’t slow until the two of them shouldered through the apartment complex’s doors and sat in a jumble together on the wide front stairwell.

Martin was worried. He was often worried, and the longer he spent working in the archives the more often he was specifically worried about Jon’s health and wellbeing.

There hadn’t actually been anything terrifying lurking in Calvin Tang’s apartment. Just layer upon layer of filmy cobweb and a few long-spoiled groceries. Still, the eerie shrouded rooms had obviously spooked Jon quite badly. Martin found himself wanting to reach out and put a comforting hand on the small of Jon’s back, or to run his thumb over Jon’s palm and shoo away the fingernails Jon pressed into stark half-moons in his own skin.

Idly, Martin wondered how Jon would react if he ran his fingers through the other man’s silver-streaked hair. Tousled strands glowed amber in the late afternoon sunlight. Would Jon lean into his touch, making soft noises of approval and letting tension sap from his shoulders like flowing sand?

Martin shook his head and took a deep, steadying breath. _Save it for the notebook, Blackwood_.

Jon was his boss. It wouldn’t be appropriate to take his hand, or run his fingers through Jon’s hair, or press their lips together with—Martin wiped his face with his hands, trying to snap himself out of it and remember how to breathe through his heavy blush.

“Want to grab some lunch?” he asked, infusing the question with forced cheer. So they hadn’t solved any mysteries and Jon had been scared senseless by a bunch of cobwebs. He could still get a lunch date out of it.

 _Not a date, not a date_ , he chanted internally as Jon spared him a tired glance.

“Ah, right. It is afternoon, isn’t it? Of course. My apologies, Martin.”

Martin stood and dusted himself off before offering a hand to Jon, whose eyes were still glued to the handrail. His rich brown skin was marred by a sheen of dusty sweat. Martin cleared his throat, and Jon jerked his head around, noticing the outstretched hand. He took it without hesitation.

Grunting, Martin hauled him up to his feet. He tried not to focus on the feeling of Jon’s thin fingers nestled against his. He let go as soon as he safely could and told himself he didn’t miss the warmth ghosting between their palms.

“Okay, so, what’re you in the mood for? Thai? Italian? That chippy down the road?”

Jon’s forehead furrowed in confusion. “Oh, I generally don’t—I mean, the institute—I didn’t think—” he cleared his throat, shaking his shoulders as if trying to settle back down into himself. “Yes, you’re right. I asked for your assistance on this little venture. My treat for lunch, then.”

“O-oh, no! No, Jon, I didn’t—you don’t have to pay! I just thought you might be hungry. We can—we can just head back to the institute, it’s no problem.”

Straightening his back, Jon stood to his full height, though he still had to look up to stare determinedly into Martin’s eyes. “Nonsense. What did you have in mind? I have no preference, though I should warn you that Hungarian is off the table.”

Martin wasn’t sure if Jon was joking. He laughed a little anyway, just in case, and was rewarded by a slight twist in Jon’s lips that couldn’t be called a smile but was certainly not a frown.

“Curry, then? I think there’s a nice place a few blocks away.”

By the time they slid into a booth at the cramped curry house, Martin’s heart was pounding out of his chest. Their brush with the spiders had clearly thrown Jon off his rhythm, and the walk had been studded with huffs of sharp laughter and clumsy commentary on the bustling streets around them. Every time Martin snuck a glance at the other man, he’d caught Jon’s gaze flicking back to him, a tiny breath escaping as if Jon had been worried Martin might disappear.

Jon had held the shop door open for him. Martin was absolutely gone.

While they waited on their food—chicken tikka for Jon, lamb vindaloo for Martin—he couldn’t help watching with a fond smile as Jon twisted a paper napkin into pieces. Occasionally, his eyes would flick back over to Martin. Something in Martin’s chest buzzed incandescent every time.

“So,” Jon said, voice halting and echoing. “Next steps in the case of Calvin Tang.”

Martin pulled up his camera roll. “Well, I got pictures of his emergency contact list, but it’s short. Yukti is on it, actually. There was also a work ID in one of his drawers. Apparently he works at a climbing gym about half an hour from his flat. I can follow up on all that after lunch, if you like?”

Jon pressed his lips together. He tilted his head. Eyes narrowed, he appraised Martin, tension returning in a crease between his brows and a tug of his shoulders up towards his ears. “…yes. I—I suppose I failed to notice those materials. Well-spotted.”

“Oh, no, I mean, I was just poking around. While you were, uh, actually following his trail through the house. I mean—team effort, you know? That’s why you let me tag along.” He forced himself to keep up a bright smile for a few more seconds. It wasn’t hard. As drained as Jon sounded, he was still complimenting Martin’s work.

Slowly, Jon sank bank into the cushioned booth. “Yes, of course. You proved quite useful after all. Now,” he took a sip of the neglected chai in front of him, “if only you could apply those talents to filing.”

For a moment, Martin’s heart sank. Then Jon’s eyes met his for another half-second, betraying amusement, and he grinned back. “Yeah, Jon. I do my best.”

The food arrived just in time to save them from a weighted silence. Jon dug into his plate with the gusto of a small child presented an ice cream float after being denied dinner, and Martin alternated between bites of food and pleased glances at his dining companion. The pallor of fear drained from Jon’s face.

It was more than Martin had hoped for. Jon snorted derisively at a bad pun, and the familiar sound settled into Martin’s ribcage, just beneath his lungs. It was enough.

* * *

Jon spent the walk back to the institute thinking. He tried to maintain a steady flow of nodding and humming to placate Martin, who couldn’t seem to keep his mouth shut. Jon supposed he owed it to the other man to keep up a conversation, considering how helpful and capable he’d been with the investigation thus far. More capable than Jon himself had managed to be, in fact, surrounded by the detritus of what must have been thousands of spiders.

Those were just a few of the many things he needed some space to consider. The volume of web that had covered the flat was obviously the result of a massive spider infestation, but there hadn’t actually been any spiders visible in the flat after their entrance. Could Tang be some kind of flesh hive, like Jane Prentiss and her worms? A flesh hive for… spiders? Jon shivered at the thought, fists clenching in his pockets.

“Oh, are you cold?”

Before Jon could even reply, Martin was holding a pale pink knit scarf out to him.

“What? Oh, no thank you, Martin. I was just—” _shaking at the very thought of spiders_ , his brain filled in for him. “Bit of a draft.”

“Well, this should keep the drafts out. Go on, Jon, my coat’s plenty warm.”

Jon reluctantly accepted the scarf and tossed it over his shoulders. Immediately, the nipping autumn wind pulled back, leaving Jon snugly wrapped up in what he could see up close was a chunky hand-knitted scarf. “Did you knit this?” he asked, curiosity overtaking both his embarrassment and his desire to ruminate in silence.

The grin that split Martin’s face was like a ray of summer sunshine. It seemed very out of place under the looming gray sky, but Jon didn’t mind.

“Yes! I do, actually! It’s one of my favorite hobbies. My mom taught me. I’ve, um, never been really good at it. Not as good as her. Still, it’s a nice way to pass the time! I could, uh, knit you something, if you wanted? Since it’s getting cold. I mostly just do coasters and scarves since I don’t have a lot of people to gift things to. I mean—uh.”

“That’s quite alright. Wouldn’t want to trouble you.” Jon rubbed the ends of the scarf absentmindedly between his fingers. It was warm and very, very soft. Like Martin. His eyes widened as he processed the thought, and he was too stunned to protest as Martin rushed to disagree.

“No, it wouldn’t be any trouble! I’d like the chance to knit for somebody else for once, honestly. It doesn’t have to be anything fancy. But, I mean, it could be! I—I’m really not the best, so I’ll understand if you don’t keep it, but it would be nice to have a project. I could just do another scarf, maybe? Like this one, but something more your colour?”

Jon wasn’t sure he wanted to find out what Martin thought ‘his colour’ might be, but as he was still reeling from his own mind’s betrayal, it was all he could do to nod and keep walking in a straight line. He almost tripped over the curb when they approached the institute’s doors.

The moment they stepped over the threshold, Jon felt the weight of watching eyes on him. He rolled his shoulders back and let a familiar veneer of professional detachment settle back over him like a safety blanket.

Martin trailed him down into the archives. “I’ll get a start on that follow-up, then?”

“Excellent. Thank you, Martin.” Jon gripped the door to his office, ready to dart inside and hide himself from the events of the afternoon.

“Hello?” an unfamiliar voice called from the stairs leading down into the archives. “Excuse me, is Mr. Sims in?”

He pulled himself back out of his office with significant force of will and strode over to the woman standing on the bottom step. “Yes, hello. Did you need something?”

“I’m here to give a statement. Something weird’s been happening in my building, and when I brought it up to my neighbor, she directed me here. She works at the institute. Not down here, though, I think.”

“Ms. Mangal?”

A smile flitted across the woman’s face. “Yeah, Yukti sent me.” She stuck her hand out at him. “I’m Maribel Santos. Nice to meet you, Mr. Sims.”

Jon took her hand and gave it one perfunctory shake. He felt none of the stinging heat that ghosted over his skin when his fingers brushed Martin’s. He prepared to crumple that particular mental note up into a useless ball of mental paper, but was suddenly steamrolled by the realization that he was still _wearing Martin’s scarf_.

“So, where do I sit?” Maribel asked, oblivious to Jon’s internal crisis. “I’d like to give my statement directly.”

“Ah, right, yes, right this way. Uh, I’ll grab a tape recorder.” He wasn’t sure what to do with the scarf. Set it down on Martin’s desk, perhaps? Where had Martin gone?

Maribel settled into her chair with an air of complete calm. Unlike most of the institute’s statement-givers, she seemed to believe she was exactly where she needed to be.

“Statement of Maribel Santos,” Jon droned into the recorder, deciding the scarf could stay for the time being. “Concerning…?”

“Some problems with my upstairs neighbor. The guy in the flat above mine.”

He nodded. “Concerning some problems with her upstairs neighbor. Statement begins.”

“I’ve been living in my flat for about three years now, which is longer than most of the other residents. I moved in just after a major renovation. One of the reasons I chose the building was because of the soundproofing. I generally work from home, and I wanted to be sure my neighbors couldn’t disturb me during meetings. Don’t get me wrong; I like my neighbors. The building’s pretty run-down, but I think the renters are all quite nice people, in their own way.”

Jon nodded along, recalling the tired but friendly faces exchanging smiles and waves with Martin on their way up to Calvin’s flat.

“I almost never have any problems. Sure, sometimes one of the flats downstairs has a party and the music runs a bit late, or someone’s guest gets lost and knocks on my door by accident, but it’s pretty rare. For the most part my work isn’t disturbed. That’s why, when the noises started, I assumed they were coming from inside my flat.

“I’ve always had some sensitivity to sound. I don’t think auditory processing issues are anything to be ashamed of, but they cause their fair share of problems. It’s one of the reasons why I work from home. A crowded office tends to be too much, especially early in the morning with not enough sleep and the stress of a workday bearing down on me. The endless clacking keyboards and rustling papers and murmured voices from the breakroom. I can’t tune any of it out. I can’t just decide to hunker down and focus on my work. Noise cancelling headphones are fine, but without any noise I get caught up in the texture of my shirt or the humidity of the room. And I can’t exactly speak to clients I can’t hear.

“Staying home has solved most of those problems. I control the environment, and since I’m less stressed to begin with it’s not as easy to get overstimulated. I really try not to be a difficult neighbor. As long as I’m comfortable and focused, it usually doesn’t matter if I hear an argument down the hall or somebody drops something. But if someone is persistently making the kind of noise that triggers discomfort for me, that’s going to impact my work, so I have no qualms about doing whatever I need to do to shut them up.”

She interrupted herself with a quiet chuckle.

“Respectfully, of course. I’ve left passive-aggressive notes, offered home-baked bribes, reported people to the landlord, and once I even punched a guy. It was four in the morning on a Tuesday, in my defense. No hard feelings. Whatever I have to do to get my peace and quiet, I do it. And it always works out in the end.

“But like I said, at first I thought the noises were somewhere in my apartment. I kept waking up in the middle of the night for no reason. My refrigerator gets frequent maintenance to keep it quiet, and I sleep with a fan on for white noise, so I just assumed I was waking up naturally. Until one night a couple weeks ago when I decided not to move at all. My eyes flew open, it was some unholy hour of the night, and I just lay there in complete silence. Cars went whirring past on the street outside. The sheets shifted around my body, rubbing together and making cottony scratches. My own heartbeat pounded in the corner of my jaw.

“That was when I finally heard it. I couldn’t understand how I’d missed it before. Maybe it was my footsteps as I wandered the house drowning it out, maybe I’d just mentally shuffled it away as part of the noise of my fan, but it was unmistakable. A constant low tapping like rain drumming on the roof. Hundreds of little tik-tik-tiks resounding through the darkness of my flat.

“I lay there, frozen in bed, clutching my weighted blanket like a life preserver. The noise didn’t stop. Eventually, I just drifted back to sleep. The next morning I checked the fridge and the television and the fan, but nothing was wrong. Everything sounded normal.

“It came again the next night, and I realized where I could hear it from. The noise was coming from my ceiling. Which meant, unless there were a hundred tiny clocks shoved into the space between my ceiling and his floor, that the sound was coming from the flat above me.

“Calvin Tang has been my upstairs neighbor ever since Mindy Dahl moved out. We’ve never talked much, but once in a while we run into each other on the stairs. I only know he lives above me because his fire alarm went off once just after he moved in, and I heard the noise from my kitchen before we were all driven outside.

“Yukti knew him better than I did. Knows him, I guess. Yukti and I both tend to leave our flats at around the same time, and we’ve ended up in the elevator together often enough to exchange numbers. We flat-sit for each other and back each other up against the landlord. Sometimes we get lunch.”

Jon could have sworn Maribel flushed a little, but she was already pushing on with her story, and he found himself swept up in the flow of her words.

“After three nights of listening to that awful chittering noise, I decided it wasn’t likely to stop any time soon. I went up to Calvin’s flat the next day and taped a note to his door. I don’t remember exactly what I wrote, but it was polite. Just a notice to keep it down. I even gave him my number in case he wanted to explain. He didn’t call, and the next night the noises were back and louder than ever.

“I couldn’t get back to sleep. I just lay there, listening to the endless clicking, feeling every inch of my skin crawl. The noise of my fan was almost deafening. I could hear myself breathing, raspy in the darkness. Sweat prickled down the back of my neck. Behind it all, constant but too irregular to ever adjust to, was the clacking of a hundred little things I couldn’t picture.

“A few days later I went back upstairs with a tin of cookies and saw my note still taped to the door. It didn’t even look like he’d even read it. I understand not everyone leaves their flat too often. I try to go out pretty regularly, at least for a walk in the evening, but it can be tempting just to hole yourself up inside. So I knocked. I figured we’d have a quick chat, I’d give him the cookies, no more said about it.

“He didn’t come to the door. I just kept up my knocking. I don’t know how long I stood there, constantly tapping my knuckles next to the note he hadn’t read. I figured if he was going to keep me up all night with his weird noises then I’d just return the favor. Finally, the door slid open just a crack. I couldn’t see anything in the darkness behind it.

“I went off on him. I mean, weeks of this weird noise and he couldn’t even be bothered to read my notes or open the door? Finally, I sort of ran out of steam. He still hadn’t said a word to me. So I held my little tin of cookies out towards the door. After a long moment, I heard him—I heard _something_ laugh. ‘Quiet,’ he said. ‘We will make it quiet.’ And he shut the door in my face.

“That was all I ever heard from him. He kept his promise, though. I haven’t heard the noises since. I wouldn’t have thought to even bring it up to Yukti if it weren’t for what happened just a few hours ago. She told me to come straight here when I texted her.

“I was sitting by my window, drinking my afternoon coffee, getting ready for a video conference. Everything was normal. I’d completely forgotten about my weird conversation with Calvin. It was light outside, and I was staring out at the little park my back window faces. When I—there was—”

She wrapped her arms around herself. “I think it was a leg. A big, shiny, black leg. It landed on my window. It was covered in a forest of tiny hairs, and they seemed to spread out and plaster themselves against the glass. It was massive. It rested there for a second, just long enough that I couldn’t dismiss it as a bird or a trick of the light. Then it was gone.”

Maribel smoothed the wrinkles in her long skirt. “That’s all, then. Yukti said you’d want to hear it.”

“Statement ends.” Jon clicked off the tape recorder. “Uh, thank you, Ms. Santos. We’ll… we’ll do what follow-up we can on your statement. We’ll get back to you if we find anything.”

She got to her feet. “Thank you, but don’t bother. I don’t need to know. I’m only here because she asked me to tell you what I saw. If it’s really important, I’ll hear it from Yukti. Think I’ll go say hi now, in fact.” Maribel slipped a pair of chunky headphones from her bag and slipped them on before trudging up the stairs back to the main floor of the institute.

Jon leaned back in his chair, massaging the bridge of his nose with one hand. He swallowed. _We will make it quiet_ , his mind repeated, and he thought of the thick layer of spun web that covered everything in Calvin Tang’s apartment. More words sprang to his mind unbidden.

_Knock, knock._

_Who is it, Mr. Spider?_

_It’s Ms. Santos. And she’s brought you some cookies._

_Mr. Spider doesn’t eat cookies._

He shuddered. It was—he was being ridiculous. Calvin Tang hadn’t eaten Maribel Santos. She had just come in to make her statement. Whatever horrible creature his mind had conjured to fill the body-shaped space in its webbed cocoon, it was nothing but a child’s scared fantasy. Still. Ms. Santos’ flat would have been just below the open third floor window. And the parallels to what he’d seen as a child were impossible to ignore.

Jon picked up the tape recorder. He would have to wait for Martin’s follow-up. Normally, he wouldn’t have left so much research up to any one assistant. And, well, specifically not to Martin. Still. It was preferable to doing it himself.

He tried to shrug off the feeling of hairs prickling over his arms. He just wished it didn’t have to be spiders. His fingers reached up to worry at the edges of the light pink scarf he'd almost forgotten he was wearing. Perhaps he’d accompany Martin on the next steps of their investigation.

Whatever he thought of Martin’s skills as a filing assistant and archival researcher, one thing remained true. Martin was far bigger than a spider.


	5. Entangled By Another

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has some thinking to do. Martin has some knitting to do. Tim and Sasha have some biscuits to eat, and frankly, that's probably more important.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AT LONG LAST I am letting Timothy Stoker have his say. Love all these funky little assistants. Yes, this chapter is mostly pining, but I am trying to Do Some Internal Development while also Conveniently Moving The Timeline Along. Thanks so much to all those who have been reading and commenting, and to friends who've taken the time to check this fic out!! 
> 
> I've been getting some comments about the relative spooky scariness of spiders and can promise there aren't many in this chapter (but no promises for the future so take care!).

Jon set the scarf down on Martin’s desk, hidden beneath a manila file folder.

The other man blinked up at him, tugging his eyes away from his monitor. “Sorry, d’you need something? I was just looking into Calvin Tang’s stepdad, he’s apparently still alive somewhere in Cardiff.”

“Ah, yes. Excellent. No, this is a—a possibly related case. One Carlos Vittery appears to have had something of a run-in with supposedly supernatural spiders.” He tried to infuse the words with an edge of detached sarcasm.

Martin just nodded, looking serious. “Got it. What sort of follow-up do we need?”

“I thought you might look into his flat in Archway. Do your due diligence, skulk around the place a bit. Speak with a couple neighbors, if they’re available. See if it connects back to Mr. Tang in any way. My notes are in the folder along with Mr. Vittery’s statement.”

“All right, I’ll get on that.” Martin picked up the folder and revealed the light pink scarf sitting beneath it. “Oh! Is this—ah, thanks for getting that back to me, then.”

Jon cleared his throat. “Of course. Thank you, Martin. For letting me borrow it. I, ah, appreciate the gesture. I’ve washed it for you. By hand, of course. I didn’t want to… ruin it.”

He’d intended to return Martin’s scarf as soon as he was done taking Ms. Santos’s statement. It had just been chilly that day, even down in the musty air of the archives, and Martin hadn’t been around. Jon hadn’t seen the harm in letting the soft yarn sit bundled around his neck a little longer. Then, predictably, he’d forgotten it was even there. It wasn’t until he’d returned to his own flat and stripped off his cold-weather gear that he realized he’d brought the scarf home with him. It just hadn’t seemed right to return the scarf right after wearing it all day. And if he’d worn it for a while just around the house, a comforting presence as he paged through research notes and shook down his pantry for dinner, who was he hurting? Anyway, it was clean.

Immediately, Martin looped the scarf back around his own neck. “Thank you, Jon. You really didn’t have to, but I appreciate the thought. I’ll be sure to make yours machine washable!” Before Jon could protest, Martin scooped up the file again and began to pack materials from his desk into his bag. “I’ll head over on the Northern Line and review this on the way. I’ll report back soon.”

“Yes, of course. Well, uh—be safe, then. I’ll look forward to your report.”

Martin flashed him another one of those blinding smiles. Jon couldn’t imagine how he did it without straining something in his jaw. “Great. See you, then.”

* * *

On his way out of the archives, Martin stopped by the institute breakroom, hoping to snag a forgotten danish or a free biscuit before he headed to the underground. Tim and Sasha were huddled at one of the tables sipping mugs of coffee. Sasha’s phone was balanced against a biscuit tin, and she was giggling into her hand. One of Tim’s arms rested on the back of her chair.

“Mr. Blackwood!” he drawled, spotting Martin hesitating in the doorway. “Come on and join us, why don’t you? Here to brew trouble or just tea?”

Martin smiled and stepped in. “Neither, actually. I’m taking the tube. Are there any biscuits in there? I could use something for the road.”

“Better!” Sasha exclaimed, gesturing to the countertop behind them. “Tim brought in some homemade. Isn’t he a treat?”

Tim clapped a hand to his chest. “Why, Sasha! You flatter me. Martin, would you deign to accept one of my humble offerings? They’ve got loads of chocolate in them. And loads of sugar. All the good stuff. But my secret ingredient? That I’ll never tell.”

“It’s cinnamon,” Sasha stage-whispered to Martin as he took a cookie from the covered plate.

“Sasha!” Tim exclaimed. “Cinnamon is the spice of life! No, the secret ingredient is sex appeal.” He shot a few exaggerated winks in Martin’s direction for effect.

Sasha smacked him lightly on the back of the head. “Hush up or you’ll lose all the points you got for bringing in snacks to share.”

“Points towards what, exactly, Ms. James? A cottage for two in the South Downs?”

“Towards another smack on the head, if you aren’t careful.”

Tim sniffed. “Serves me right for trying to woo the lot of you with sweets, then. Martin, does the boss man eat biscuits? And if not could you convince him to try? I’d like to spread this particular act of generosity around as far as it’ll get me.”

“I’m sure he does. He eats just about anything. I mean, except Hungarian.” Martin flushed a bit when Tim’s raised eyebrow waggled. “Not that it _matters_ , since I’m assuming these biscuits aren’t Hungarian. Anyway, I’m headed out on a research trip, so I won’t be able to bring Jon anything.”

“Speaking of the boss,” Sasha interrupted, getting to her feet, “I’ve got some filing to get back to. You two behave while I’m gone.”

“But Sash!” Tim whined, “I wasn’t done wooing you! You’ve only had two biscuits!”

She swiped a third off the platter. “Your tricks won’t work on me, Mr. Stoker. Next time try cake.”

Tim arched against the back of his chair, one hand flung up to his forehead in a dramatic faint. “Sometimes I think you’re just toying with me. This time biscuits, next time cake, what next? The lease to my flat? One of my fingers?”

Sasha headed back toward the archives with her biscuit, ignoring Tim the whole way.

He waited until she disappeared to turn back to Martin. “Mark my words, Blackwood. She’ll be back before long.”

“Well, she did forget her phone.”

Tim swiped it from the table. “Yeah, better be getting that back to her. But what’s got you on the run? And is that the boss’s scarf you’re wearing?”

Martin almost choked on biscuit crumbs. “W-what? No! No, this is mine!” He accepted Tim’s offered cup and took a long sip of coffee, nose wrinkling at the acidic bitterness.

“So you’re telling me I didn’t see Jon all wrapped up in that scarf at his desk the other day?”

Martin just barely managed to avoid spitting the coffee back into Tim’s cup.

A grin split the other man’s handsome face. “Ooh, or maybe I did? Go on, Martin, fess up. Were the two of you swapping shirts in the back room? What did I miss?”

“Tim!” Martin felt faint as all the blood in his body rushed right to the surface of his skin. “Stop it! Look, it was cold out, we were following up on a statement together, I gave him my scarf. Then he returned it. Perfectly normal, okay? It’s not like we’re—I mean, he wouldn’t— ”

Tim waved a casual hand. “Yeah, yeah, I get it. You give the shivering damsel your scarf and he can’t even be bothered to snog you for it. Tragedies all around these archives.”

“I’m _leaving_ ,” Martin spluttered, grabbing another biscuit and scurrying for the door. As an afterthought, he poked his head back into the room. “Thanks, by the way.”

Tim shoved Sasha’s phone into his pocket and picked up the plate of biscuits. “Well, I’ll try and get your pet project to eat something. Winning my way into Sasha’s heart can wait— but not for long. Maybe I should start making tea for her! How’s that gone for you so far?”

“Leaving!” Martin called over his shoulder as he escaped down the hallway.

Once he was settled on the underground, he tried to focus on reading over Carlos Vittery’s file. His hands kept straying back to the scarf still wound around his neck. The scarf that, if what Tim said was true, Jon had worn for the better part of a day. Martin pressed his face into the fabric and took a deep breath.

 _It’s not creepy_ , he told himself. _It’s just my scarf._

The yarn smelled like clean linen sprinkled with lavender, and Martin couldn’t help wondering if that was what all Jon’s clothes smelled like. If he pressed his face into the crook of Jon’s shoulder and took a deep breath, would it feel like being embraced by a lavender field?

File forgotten on his lap, he leaned his head against the cool window. The thought of holding Jon inevitably led to the thought of Jon holding him, wiry arms wrapped around Martin, pulling him down to earth. By the time Martin arrived in Archway, he’d managed to power through most of the file, but imaginary Jon was still whispering gentle praise in imaginary Martin’s ear, and real Martin almost missed his stop.

He exited the underground, file clutched in his hands. He was going to make Jon proud.

* * *

Jon stared at the spot on his desk where a mug of tea would normally rest. The last time he’d heard from Martin had been—well, no, the last time he’d actually _seen_ Martin had been when the other man returned to the institute to report back on his lack of findings with regard to Carlos Vittery.

Martin hadn’t been back to work since. He’d received a few texts from Martin confirming that the other man just had a stomach bug. There was really no reason to be worried. In fact, Martin had sent a follow-up message just a few days earlier.

Jon squinted down at the text on his screen.

_Hello, Jon. I cannot come in to work again. Sorry. I believe I may have a parasite._

It was a perfectly normal, professional text. It was quite considerate of Martin to continue to update him while in the midst of what, considering how long he’d been stuck at home, must be a truly terrible illness. It was just that…well. Jon scrolled up to some of Martin’s older texts.

_Hey Jon!! Coming out for drinks with Tim and Sasha tomorrow?_

_Sorryyy I’m running late a woman on the tube dropped her groceries and I missed my platform be there soon! Bringing pastries!!_

_Jon! Samantha from Research is retiring and they have cake up here! Should I bring you a slice?_

There was no way around it; the recent texts just didn’t sound like Martin. Jon had tried calling to check in on him, but Martin wasn’t picking up his phone. Could it just be illness getting to the other man? Did he text differently when low on energy? Was he… upset with Jon?

Jon pursed his lips. That was ridiculous. Whatever was going on with Martin, it certainly had nothing to do with him. What could he even have done to make the other man resent him?

 _Snapped at him_ , his brain helpfully supplied. _Critiqued his work. Held onto his scarf too long. Sent him off on dangerous research. Barely responded to all of those earlier, friendlier texts. Not thanked him for tea. Insulted him and his skills on tape._

Jon shook off the sudden swell of panic in his stomach. Martin was ill, and that was all there was to it. It wasn’t Jon’s fault he was sick, and the only reason he was so worried about it was that he’d grown used to Martin’s cheery presence in the archives, and without him around Jon felt off-balance and adrift in a way he simply didn’t like.

Jon told himself he didn’t mind admitting that. That he—he missed Martin’s presence in the archives. He also told himself it didn’t matter whether Martin took his calls. However sick Martin was and when he might feel better was none of his business, and there was nothing he could do about it.

His gaze swept back to the desk, still empty of tea. When other people were distressed, Martin brought them tea. Tea, biscuits, sometimes tissues. He seemed to carry a rotating stock of mild pain and congestion relievers in his coat pockets. Martin was excellent at caring for people. Not only did he have a soothing voice and natural tendency towards nurturing support, he was always stocked with the supplies people needed to feel better.

Jon didn’t tend naturally towards anything but snappish paranoia. Still, perhaps there were a few things he could do for Martin.

For once, instead of holing himself up in his office and eating a cereal bar, Jon actually left the archives for lunch. On his way out, he passed the break room.

“Hey, boss man!” Tim called from inside. He and Sasha had a few boxes of Chinese take-out spread out on the table in front of them. “Care to join us?”

“No thanks, I’ve got errands to run.”

Tim rolled his eyes. “Oh, come off it, you’re always busy.”

“Tim!” Sasha hissed, swatting his arm.

He stuck his tongue out at her. “Any more word from Martin, boss? I’m starting to miss having that beautiful face around the archives.”

“Tim, please _try_ to be a bit more professional. And no. No updates.”

“Try not to sound so sad about it,” Tim drawled. “He’ll be right as rain and running back into our collective open arms soon enough.”

Sasha stole the cardboard takeout container he’d been eating out of and held it out of his reach. “Good luck on your errands, Jon! Don’t let him get to you.”

Without a word, Jon headed for the exit. He really did have errands to run.

His first stop was the local Tesco, where he picked up a few bottles of energy drinks and some boxes of tea he thought he’d seen Martin stock the break room with. The most important thing with flu was staying hydrated, especially during recovery, and they’d keep until Martin came back to work if Jon still wasn’t able to reach him by phone. He picked up a bland deck of playing cards and a booklet of word games. The local pharmacy stocked Tamiflu. To round out the care package, Jon bought a light fleece blanket from a shop a few blocks from the institute.

On his walk back, he passed a craft store. Balls of yarn were arrayed in stacks against the window. Jon hesitated. In one shopping trip he’d exerted more mental effort than he usually did in a full workday. Taking care of others didn’t come naturally to him. Besides, what if Martin didn’t want his idiotic care package? Jon was his boss, after all. They barely knew each other. Was it unprofessional to give a sick employee gifts? Jon wasn’t even sure what made a good yarn!

Before he could talk himself out of it, he slipped inside to peruse the shop’s selection. After a few minutes of searching, he found a section of yarns that he thought matched the material of Martin’s scarf. What colours did Martin like? Jon really didn’t have a clue.

He thought back on the institute party where he’d first taken Yukti’s statement. Martin had been wearing that striking blue shirt. Jon chose not to interrogate why or how he remembered that, instead selecting a ball of light blue yarn and bringing it up to the front to purchase. It was by far the priciest item he’d picked up, but after all, Martin was continually offering to knit him something. Jon couldn’t exactly return that favor. It was the least he could do to keep Martin supplied for his little hobby.

By the time he arrived back at the institute, thankfully, both Tim and Sasha were scattered on individual research missions. He set his purchases in the corner of the room, far away from prying eyes, and tried once more to ring Martin. The call went through to voicemail. Jon tried not to feel put out.

He was on institute time, after all. He might as well get back to work.

* * *

As he reached the end of Moira Kelly’s statement, adding on his final remarks, he heard a door slam somewhere in the archives.

“It might just be a coincidence,” he continued, “but I recall the name ‘Simon Fairchild’ was one of the ones used by—”

His office door flew open.

“My God!” he croaked, fumbling the statement. “Martin?”

“Jon,” Martin gasped, only pausing for a moment before he began to stamp on the floor around him.

Jon blinked down at the translucent worms wriggling in the doorway. “What the hell is—what are—what _happened_ , Martin?”

The heel of Martin’s shoe came down hard on the last worm. He surveyed the floor for a moment, then looked up at Jon, his eyes frantically bright and his cheeks flushed with exertion. “I’ve been trapped in my flat by Jane Prentiss for the past thirteen days. I thought I was going to die.” He thrust a bundle of paper at Jon, the redness spread across his face intensifying. “Also, I knit you a scarf.”


	6. Woven Threads And Stolen Glances

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude: dinner, followed by some light entertainment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I bring you: self-indulgent fluff with very little plot relevance but some sweet sweet character bonding. Tomorrow? Who knows! (I know. It's spiders. Next update I'm bringing you spiders. Consider this a palate cleanser.)
> 
> Huge thanks as always to everyone reading, bookmarking, *~commenting~* <3, and leaving kudos!! I've started school and am prepping for NaNoWriMo, so I have less free time for this project, but your support drives me to keep writing and putting up chapters! Special thanks this week to shhdontlook for their reliable commenting and shinyopals for remembering the care package :)) All commenters own a 1% stake in my heart. Claim Yours Today!

_A room in the archives,_ Jon had told him. _A room in the archives I use to sleep when working late._

Which meant that—well, firstly, it meant that Jon should really stop working so late. Staying into the evening was one thing, but sleeping overnight at the archives seemed like a from-scratch recipe for an unhealthy work-life balance. Martin would have to do his best to give Jon a stern talking-to about how long the hours he put in at the institute stretched out.

He’d give that a go as soon as he recovered from the slap in the face that was realizing he was going to be sleeping _in Jon’s bed_. Obviously not Jon’s actual bed. Martin had no reason to be over at Jon’s flat, in his _bed_ , sleeping where he _slept,_ putting his head on the same _pillow_ —Martin shook himself again. He needed to calm down. It was just a cot in a sealed room. Just a cot, with one scratchy blanket and a flattened pillow, that happened to have previously cradled the body of one Jonathan Sims in the honeyed Elysium of sleep on more than one occasion. It was totally fine and Martin was absolutely not going to faint.

Though, to be fair, it wouldn’t be too bad if he fainted right above the bed. The mattress was clearly sized to a different frame, and it drooped off to one side, forming a soft ramp onto the bed. It would probably catch him just fine.

His private spiral was interrupted by a hesitant knock on the door. His entire body tensed on instinct. Already scanning the room for cloth to pack in under the door, it took all his energy to suck in a deep breath and let it out. He wasn’t in his flat. Prentiss wasn’t at the door.

Still, he hesitated in front of it and checked the floor for worms. There wasn’t really a gap under the door, but nothing seemed to be squirming behind it either. He peered through the window.

There stood Jon, looking absolutely worn out, a plastic bag cradled in one arm and two mugs of tea in his hands. Martin’s heart skipped a beat.

Jon was wearing the scarf. For thirteen days trapped inside his stifling flat, listening to the mess of worms crawling and squelching and writhing on the other side of his door, Martin had been kept sane by one thought. When the books and meager rations in his flat abandoned him, one mission kept his hands and mind busy. He was making something for Jon.

The scarf was simple, washable merino wool in a muted emerald green that stood out against Jon’s dark skin. It suited him. Martin had worked on it painstakingly, unravelling and restarting slipped stitches over and over until they looped and danced together in harmony. It was a little too long—as he’d grown close to finishing, the terror of imprisonment with nothing to distract him had set it. It had been a choice between lengthening the scarf and unravelling the whole thing to start over again.

Jon looked achingly dear in it. He wore it bundled around his neck and nestled into it he looked all small fine angles, like a rescued fledgling bird swaddled in a blanket. Martin reminded himself that it was not appropriate to cry over his boss under almost any circumstances. It was especially not appropriate to cry over how lovely he looked in a scarf.

Martin swung the door open.

“Ah, Martin.” Jon blinked, as if somehow surprised that Martin was the one answering the door to the room Jon had directed him to sleep in. “How are you… settling in?”

“Um, fine? I think? Thank you for letting me stay here. I wasn’t—I don’t think I could have slept at my flat. It’s still—” he cut himself off, cursing himself for rambling. Jon didn’t want to listen to his stupid anxieties. “Um, did you want to come in, or?”

Jon nodded, and Martin stepped aside to let him through. He passed Martin one of the mugs as he padded into the room.

Martin took a cautious sip. “Oh! Camomile! Thanks, Jon.” The tea was a bit weak, and a bit cold, and Jon had apparently neglected to add any milk or sweetener. A warm glow spread through Martin’s chest all the same. Jon had made him tea. Not just that, Jon had noticed one of the teas Martin liked to drink in the evening.

“Of course. Actually, I, uh—here.” Jon set his own mug down on a dusty shelf and thrust the bag in his hands out towards Martin.

Martin took it, cocking his head to one side. “What’s this?”

“Perhaps you should look inside?” Jon grumbled. There was no real bite to it, but Martin forced down his fond smile. It was probably a bit telling that he found even Jon’s frustration endearing.

Martin opened up the bag and promptly almost dropped it. Inside was a box of camomile tea, the exact Twining’s camomile, honey and vanilla he often stocked in the break room for particularly stressful workdays. “O-oh! Wow! Thank you, Jon, you really didn’t have to get me this.”

“It’s nothing much.” Jon shifted on his feet, refusing to meet Martin’s eyes, but a pleased smile worked its way onto his face. “I just thought maybe you could make use of some things. Well, actually, I thought you were sick. So perhaps you won’t be needing the Tamiflu.”

Martin upended the bag gently onto his cot and had to stifle a gasp. Flu medication, tea, Lucozade, a blanket that had been obscuring his view of the rest of the bag’s contents, and—and— _oh_ , Martin was trying very hard not to cry. The thick ball of yarn matched the color of the shirt he’d bought to impress Jon at a pub. It felt like a lifetime ago. Had Jon done that on purpose?

Jon hovered beside him. “Um, I hope that’s all fine. I wasn’t really sure what to get you. I don’t exactly have a lot of experience when it comes to caring—uh, care packages, I suppose.”

Martin hugged him. There was nothing else he could possibly say to express the warmth that welled up from his chest, clogging his throat with honey and pricking softly at the back of his eyes with relieved tears. One of Jon’s elbows was caught between them, and the other man was all bony angles in Martin’s grasp, but suddenly Jon’s cautious arms were around him and Martin was pretty sure he’d never felt anything softer in his life.

Jon’s shoulder blades shifted under Martin’s hands. His fingers curled into the back of Martin’s jumper, and Martin could feel the soft flicker of Jon’s silver-streaked hair against his neck. Warmth rippled across his skin. Holding Jon just felt so—so right, as if the space between Martin’s arms was meant to be filled with all his edges. Jon’s head fit perfectly against Martin’s shoulder. When Jon let out a soft breath, the air rustled in Martin’s curls. He could just barely catch the pleasant scent of Jon’s detergent, that whiff of linen and lavender that had permeated his own scarf after Jon had borrowed it.

He pulled back after just a moment, hoping he’d held on for a normal, completely not suspicious amount of time. The urge to cry had thankfully faded. It had been replaced by a dopey, impossibly wide smile and a blush that could have stopped a speeding car. Martin didn’t care.

“Thank you, Jon,” he said. “It’s perfect. If I was sick, this would make me feel better right away. I’m not sick and it still makes me feel better! And the yarn is—it’s all perfect. You really didn’t have to get me anything at all, but it’s—this—” he huffed out a breath, “thank you.”

Jon cleared his throat, swigging a mouthful of his own tea. “Yes. Well… yes. Of course. I mean, you deserve something nice, after the past few weeks you’ve had. And, uh, I suppose we _are_ even now. Thank you for the scarf, by the way. It’s very—well, I don’t know much about knitting, but it’s quite comfortable. I imagine it’s excellent work.”

Martin was going to float away like a helium balloon. Jon liked the scarf. Jon had gotten him yarn and the tea he liked and a blanket. And despite what Jon had said about them being even, the fact that he’d included Tamiflu and a sports drink meant that he’d bought things for Martin well before finding out what had really happened. Jon had made him a care package for the flu! For no reason!

“O-oh! Oh! I’m glad you like it. It’s—yeah. I mean, obviously you don’t owe me anything! But again, thank you.” He held up the fleece blanket and gave a nervous chuckle. “I’ll definitely get some use out of this.”

Jon’s forehead creased as he examined the cot. “Ah, yes. It’s not exactly the most comfortable place to sleep. My apologies, I should find some more suitable bedding.”

“No, no, it’s totally fine! I mean, I’ve got this nice new blanket now. It’s really no problem.”

They stood in silence for a few seconds, Jon taking another gulp of his tea. He coughed. “Well, uh, I should leave you to get your things sorted, I suppose.”

“Ah, right! You should be heading home.”

Jon wouldn’t meet Martin’s eyes. “Actually, I’ll be working in the archives for the next couple of hours. Feel free to interrupt if there’s anything I can assist you with.”

“Jon!” Martin’s earlier excitement was buried by an automatic response of indignant worry. “It’s half past seven already, and you aren’t planning on heading home? Have you even eaten dinner yet?”

The other man shrugged. He quirked one eyebrow up at Martin, not quite smiling. “Would you prefer I leave you alone in the archives for the evening?”

Martin had been trying valiantly not to think about that possibility. The idea of huddling in the little cot alone behind another flimsy doorway sent a shudder rippling through his body.

Jon hummed and took another sip of tea, looking almost pleased with himself.

“Well you should at least _eat_ ,” Martin bit back, willing himself not to blush pathetically at the idea that Jon was staying late in the archives to keep him company.

“I suppose you’re right. What did you have in mind?”

“What— oh!” Martin made no effort to hide the wide smile that tugged at his cheeks. “Whatever you like.”

* * *

Jon led the way to a noodle shop situated by the closest tube station. Martin had seemed surprised at his suggestion that they eat together. Still, Martin had been the one to suggest lunch the other day, so Jon didn't think he was doing anything wrong. Besides, he'd... quite liked eating with Martin. The other man made surprisingly good company.

An early chill had settled over the city, and he slipped his icy hands into the folds of the scarf Martin had knitted for him. He’d been telling the truth; though he didn’t know the first thing about knitting, he already knew it was destined to become his favorite scarf. The color was deep and gentle and calmed him just to look at. It called to mind the one trip he and his grandmother had taken to the Greensand hills. They’d walked between towering trees, amidst grasses dotted with wildflowers, and he’d held her hand on the vague premise of not running off.

A sudden intense desire swelled in Jon’s chest. Flexing his fingers, he took a deep breath, letting the cool night air settle into his lungs. No. He absolutely couldn’t reach out and take Martin’s hand. It would be wildly inappropriate. Where on earth had that thought come from?

He looked back at Martin. The other man was wearing the light pink scarf he’d last loaned to Jon. It matched the blistered flush of his cheeks, bright eyes watering against a sudden bracing wind. A small smile still stretched across his face. He seemed distracted by the lit windows of the pubs they were passing, but after a second he tilted his head to glance at Jon. Their eyes met, and Martin grinned, and Jon couldn’t stop an answering smile any more than he could stop something in his chest from tightening.

With a few long strides, Martin caught up to Jon’s side. “My treat for dinner, then?”

“Of course not. Your research got you trapped in your own apartment with canned peaches for thirteen days; I believe the Institute owes you a meal.”

Martin frowned. “Well, it’s hardly your fault Prentiss came for me. I was the one who decided to break in. Twice. Besides, you already got me a care package. And you’re letting me stay in the archives! Which, by the way, you aren’t some magical representative of, so even if the Institute owes me dinner you shouldn’t foot the bill.”

“Elias isn’t likely to,” Jon muttered.

Martin let out a breath, and a plume of steam obscured his face for a moment. “Besides, it’s not as if you need an excuse to stay late, but—I really do appreciate it. The company, I mean. I’d like to pay if it’s all right by you. Consider it a thank you.”

“But you already gave me this.” Jon tugged on the edge of his scarf, indicating the evidence in question. “And as you’ve just said, it’s hardly going out of my way for me to stay a bit later at work.”

“Come on, Jon, please? This isn’t some equivalent exchange of knitted goods and food. It would just make me feel better. I’ll let you pay next time.”

“Fine,” Jon sighed, realizing belatedly that he’d just agreed to get dinner with Martin again. He squinted up at the man beside him.

Under the glow of the streetlights, Martin’s face was impossibly soft. The edges of his eyes were crinkled with the force of a pleased smile, and he tucked his face into his shoulder as if trying to hide it. “Cool. That’s—cool. Thanks. Oh, is this it?”

Jon looked up and realized they had, in fact, arrived at the shop. He nodded.

Martin stepped past him to hold the door open. “After you, then.”

He pushed past Martin, the edge of his hand brushing against the other man’s coat. A bit flustered, though he wasn’t sure why, he headed towards the counter to put in their order. He ordered the lamian noodles in vegetable soup and reached into his pocket, remembering after a second that he’d agreed to let the other man pay. He wasn’t exactly used to eating out with other people. On those rare occasions, he and Georgie split the bill.

“What would you recommend?” Martin asked, glancing between Jon and the menu.

Jon considered their options. “Thoughts on spice?”

“Ooh, I could go for a warm-up.”

“I come here with a friend sometimes; she likes the chili oil dao xiao mian. I haven’t tried it. It smells good, though.”

Jon thought of Georgie, ordering her noodles 'extra extra hot' and sweating her way through every bite, and smiled at nothing in particular. _No fear, Jon_ , she'd gasped during their last visit, tears streaking her cheeks. _I won't be taken down by a bowl of noodles. Tell the Admiral I loved him._

“Perfect.” Martin placed his order, paid for the both of them, and swept a hand out toward the mostly empty seating. “Wherever you like.”

Jon picked out a pair of stools at a small table by the window. Their bowls arrived after just a few minutes and the two of them dove in. Warmth spread down Jon’s throat into his chest as he sipped the warm broth.

“Wow,” Martin murmured, “do they make the noodles from scratch?”

Proud of having directed Martin to such an excellent dinner spot, Jon nodded. “Hand-pulled. I’ve tried it at home myself a few times, but they never come out right.”

“I didn’t know you cooked!” Martin looked positively gleeful at having learned a new fact.

For reasons Jon couldn’t quite parse, he liked it. It was rare for someone to be so interested in Jon’s personal life. Perhaps it was because he didn’t have much of a life to begin with. All the same, he did know how to cook. It occurred to him that he really wasn’t in the habit of sharing much information with his assistants.

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m a very accomplished chef, but I picked some things up from my grandmother. I… often forget to eat when I’m busy at work. Making meals at home into more of an event—it keeps me honest, I suppose. I can generally skip meals and justify not ordering in as a cost-saving measure. If I’ve already bought all the ingredients for paella and they’re sitting there in my kitchen, I can’t just let them go bad. Besides, packing leftovers for work instead of eating out really does add up.”

“There, see? If I’d let you pay I would’ve been teaching you bad habits.”

Jon huffed a dry laugh, and the answering smile on Martin’s face was all soft crinkled edges and fondness. “Yes, well. I believe I’ve thanked you already.”

It occurred to Jon that he was still wearing his scarf. He slipped it off and bundled it into his bag before slurping up a mouthful of perfectly bouncy noodles. Tender leaves of baby bok choy and strips of stewed bamboo shoot mingled with a rich soy broth.

Martin looked equally content with his dish. There was still color in his face, but from the heat of peppercorns and chili oil rather than from the biting wind. He glanced up at Jon between bites with an expression of contentment that continually reassured Jon he had picked the right place.

They ate in comfortable silence for a while. Finally, curiosity tugged at the collar of Jon’s shirt, prompting him toward interrogation. “Do you cook, Martin?”

The other man nodded, looking oddly delighted at the question. “Yes! I’m more of a baker, if I’m being honest, but I cook for myself, and, for, uh—family, I suppose. I used to cook more often.” His aura of joy faded for a moment, but he seemed to shake it off, shooting Jon a conspiratorial look. “You wouldn’t _believe_ what I can do with a jar of peaches these days.”

* * *

The walk back to the archives was dark, and Martin clung to Jon’s shockingly good mood in an attempt to forget that, once they got back to the archives, he’d be left alone. It wasn’t hard to lose himself in soft shared smiles and unexpected bursts of Jon’s dry humour. It was oddly comfortable, walking back together down familiar streets. Jon had wrapped himself back up in the emerald scarf. Martin pushed down his desire to warm Jon’s hand with his own and contented himself with the giddy knowledge that he’d bought Jon dinner.

He could almost pretend it _was_ a date, just the two of them getting to know each other better. Well, there was the minor detail that Jon had segued into planning further research into Calvin Tang’s case the moment he finished eating. He seemed to have some plan in the works to visit the step-father himself. Martin supposed he should probably offer to go along anyway, just in case. He wanted Jon to be safe, though he knew how important work was to him. Important enough that even a dinner out with—with a friend, Martin supposed—couldn’t take his mind off it.

Still, technically, Jon was walking him home. It was comfortable in a way Martin hadn’t known being around Jon could be. Every so often the familiar rush of his unrequited crush would well up inside him and turn his insides to jelly, as it always did, but for the most part he found himself simply enjoying Jon’s company.

It wasn’t until they returned to the room with his cot that the ball of string in Martin’s stomach began to twist again. Logically, he knew the evening had to end sometime. Jon had to go home. Martin had to go to sleep on his lonely cot in the middle of an empty archive.

Thankfully, Jon didn’t seem to have gotten that particular memo, as he was sorting through the pile of little gifts he’d bought for Martin during his absence. The warm glow suffused Martin’s chest again. It had been so uncharacteristically thoughtful of Jon. Not that Martin didn’t think Jon was a good person—he just wasn’t very, well, nice. Or at least he usually wasn’t. Since they’d started working together more closely, Martin was starting to think the archival staff had misjudged Jon a bit.

Right on cue, Jon made a precious little sound of triumph and recovered a book of word games and puzzles from the pile. “Here we go! Something to keep you entertained during your imprisonment.” He offered the book to Martin with a proud smile.

Martin blinked down at it. “Oh. Um, thanks.”

Jon’s smile faded, and Martin cursed his own lack of enthusiasm. “I—my apologies if it’s not to your taste. I suppose you, uh, do have your computer back at least. And you weren’t actually ill. So no taboos on screens. I just thought—sorry.”

“Jon, I really, _really_ appreciate the sentiment.” Martin took the book from him and paged through it. “I’m just absolutely rubbish at puzzles. I’ll definitely give it a go, and I’m sure I’ll appreciate having something to do other than stare at files, I’m just—hah. It’d sound a bit pathetic to say I’m not cut out for crosswords, wouldn’t it?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jon snapped back, “of course you’re ‘cut out’ for crosswords. It’s no mark against your character if you don’t like sudoku. It’s not an IQ test.”

“Putting aside the fact that IQ tests are bunk, as far as I’m concerned, thank you. I, uh, appreciate your confidence, I suppose? I’m sure you’re quite the puzzle master yourself.” Martin tried to infuse his words with an aura of mystique and was rewarded with the return of Jon’s shy smile.

“I could give you some pointers?” Jon offered, stretching his hand out again for the book.

Martin’s heart turned a somersault. There it was, his golden excuse to keep Jon in the archives with him just a little longer. “Oh, of course! Is it okay with you if I just, uh, brush my teeth and get changed first? Maybe I’ll do some light… word jumbling before bed.”

“Yes, yes, of course.” Face already buried in the book, Jon took a seat on the floor. He leaned back against the cot. “I’ll be here.”

Martin got ready for bed at record speed. The opportunity was just too good to pass up. It would be almost like a sleepover! Maybe Jon’s voice would lull him to sleep or something equally romantic. Sudoku wasn’t exactly the kind of conversation with Jon that Martin had occasionally imagined falling asleep in the middle of, but it was a sight better than trying to put himself down with rain noises in an abandoned building.

Jon was waiting for him in the exact position he’d left him. In fact, he didn’t seem to notice when Martin reentered the room, or when he cleared the rest of his care package off the bed.

“Jon?”

The man jumped and lost his hold on the book, which fell shut in his lap. “Martin! Sorry, you startled me. I was just… examining some of these puzzles. Which was it you said you had trouble with? Crosswords?” Before Martin could respond, he was already paging to a section in the middle of the book.

Martin settled into the cot, propping himself up against the pillow, Jon’s gifted blanket wound around his shoulders. “Fine by me.” He folded his hands up in the blanket and forced down the urge to reach out and run his fingers through Jon’s hair. When Jon cleared his throat and adjusted his glasses Martin felt like a soft flannel blanket had also been wrapped around his heart.

“Time in history,” Jon declared, “three letters.”

“Um… era?”

Jon made a noise of approval and noted something down in pencil. “Poet who wrote ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’, five letters.”

“Oh!” Martin smiled down at him. “Eliot. I know my poetry.”

“Excellent. Scary landlord? Fourteen letters.”

Martin considered the clue for a moment. “Beats me. Sounds like a fake statement, if I’m being honest. ‘My landlord is soooo scary and also the rent is _supernaturally_ high’.”

Jon treated him to a dry laugh before launching into an explanation of how question marks indicated a clue should be answered, and Martin felt himself drifting towards sleep more quickly than he’d anticipated. He settled down into the cot and spread the blankets out to cover himself. Lying on his side, he angled his head to watch Jon’s face as the other man scanned clue lists and explained diacritics.

Jon’s face was achingly beautiful in the dim lamplight. His forehead uncreased when he chuckled at an odd clue, and he braced the end of the pencil endearingly between his teeth. His thick hair splayed across the blankets behind him.

“Beatles’ necessity,” he continued, “four letters.”

Martin reached his hand down, letting his knuckled brush against the fringes of Jon’s hair. “Love,” he murmured, and Jon marked it down on the paper with a smile.

“See?” Jon glanced up at him, and Martin was frozen, not just by the way his amber eyes sparkled with refracted light but by the fondness shining alongside it. “I knew you could do it. Give yourself more credit. As long as you underestimate yourself, people are going to keep underestimating you.” He tapped the paper thoughtfully with his eraser. “I know I’m guilty of that.”

Martin buried his face in the pillow and let out a shaky breath. “I see.”

The next morning, Martin woke up before his alarm. He felt well-rested for the first time in weeks. Yawning, he went to raise his arms in a waking stretch, but his palm was weighed down. He looked over at it.

His hand was cupping Jon’s cheek. The head archivist had turned his face into Martin’s palm, head resting on the blankets, half-reclined against the edge of the sloping mattress. Jon’s face in sleep was so much younger. Stress lines had receded from around his mouth and eyes, and his lips formed the slightest mellow smile.

Martin knew he should move his hand and get out of bed. He needed to dress for the day, and if Jon had slept the whole night in that position, he’d be wanting a strong cup of coffee and some space to stretch. For a moment, though, he just lay there, putting all thoughts of worms and spiders and death out of his mind, and watched Jon’s chest rise and fall with soft breaths.

He knew he wasn’t likely to get another chance at waking up to Jon’s face. No matter what, he intended to savor it.


	7. Arachnophobia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin make a house call, with some complications. Someone has been ensnared.
> 
> !!!SPOILERS BELOW!!!
> 
> Summary for those avoiding Content Warnings.
> 
> Jon and Martin visit the house of Charles Blanken, Calvin Tang's stepfather. They find a photo of Calvin and his parents, Mr. Blanken and Lian Tang. The family looks tense. In the master bedroom, Jon finds Mr. Blanken dead and partially encased in web. Martin enters the room and they are both covered in spiders that drop from the ceiling. Jon has a panic attack as Martin removes the spiders. They regroup at the institute, where Sasha and Tim agree to commit themselves to the investigation of Calvin Tang as well.
> 
> !!!SPOILERS END!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CHAPTER CONTENT WARNINGS: 
> 
> death and dead bodies; 
> 
> insect and arachnid body horror; 
> 
> panic attacks. 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS are for almost the whole chapter, in the section that begins “Jon swung the beam of his torch around the room” and ends “He poured out four mugs of tea and set them on a tray”. Take care of yourselves and prioritize your mental health!! See the summary for a watered-down plot synopsis.

Jon waited by the steps of Charles Blanken’s suburban home. Mr. Blanken, stepfather to Calvin Tang, had resided alone at his home in Cardiff since the death of Calvin’s mother Lian. Martin had been unable to contact Mr. Blanken by phone or by email, but had recovered an address.

Martin had also been unable to navigate the unfamiliar streets, forcing Jon to take the lead. Perhaps it hadn’t been necessary for Jon to walk quite so quickly. Certainly it hadn’t been necessary for Martin to _start_ it by comment on the discrepancy between the relative lengths of their legs. For all his height, Martin apparently hadn’t expected the speed at which Jon could stride when he had a point to prove.

Personally, Jon thought he was doing an admirable job of tamping down a smile as Martin finally caught up.

“Okay,” the other man huffed, cheeks painted a splotchy red by exertion, “I get it. You didn’t have to _jog_.”

“Of course,” Jon replied, pushing his glasses up his nose and performing strait-laced detachment. “Shall we?”

“Right, right. Are we just going to… knock?”

He mounted the steps. “I don’t see why not.” He raised his knuckles to rap against the painted wood.

Martin’s hand shot out and caught his wrist. The heat of his palm crept across Jon’s skin.

Jon tried to marshal an expression of reproach, but it was all he could do to avoid looking directly at Martin’s face. _Am I blushing?_ He thought. _God, I hope not_.

“Sorry, sorry,” Martin stammered, releasing his wrist. “I’m not—I just—look.” He gestured to the corners of the doorway.

Already, Jon knew what had drawn Martin’s attention, but he looked anyway. Sure enough, thick wads of webbing filled in the spaces around the doorframe. They burst from the cracks like stuffing blooming from a tear. Again, no spiders darted from the porch’s dark corners. Jon pressed his ear to the door anyway.

“Keep a look out,” he muttered as he raised his fist again, and Martin snapped to attention.

“Hold on. Shouldn’t—shouldn’t one of us go around the side? And just see—I don’t know, if there’s any open windows? Or maybe wait over there and keep watch?”

Jon considered the proposal. Martin was quite right. He still didn’t exactly believe that Calvin Tang had launched himself from a third-story window, but considering they’d missed a lead already, it was probably best to cover all their bases. Still… he pulled back to appraise Martin. “What do you plan on doing if something _does_ come out a window?”

“O-oh. Right.” Martin breathed in, drawing his shoulders back and somehow expanding to an even fuller height. “Don’t worry about me. If a bunch of spiders come crawling out, well. I’m not scared of spiders. Better than worms, at least. And if some man crawls out a window with a knife or something, I suppose I’ll just—scream? Run? One of us has to get a head start.”

Jon took his glasses off, cleaned them, and slid them back on. He heaved a sigh. “Yes, I suppose it’s just as likely something come through the door. I— I suppose I just feel anxious about the possibility of splitting up. Martin, I appreciate your willingness to come along on this investigation with me. I simply don't wish to put you in any additional danger."

Martin puffed out his chest. "Look, Jon, I get it. I'm a bit nervous too. But I've been following this investigation so far, and I don't intend to stop now. We've all got our own problems to worry about. Sasha met up with that weird Michael thing, Tim's looking into what happened to Timothy Hodge. I mean, yeah, I'm still a bit freaked out, but I don't want you going in here alone."

He sighed. Martin had a point. There didn't seem to be much safety to be had around the archives. Besides, as archivist, it wasn't even his job to be following up on statements. He was clearly letting their specific subject matter get to him. He had to trust that Martin was capable enough to look out for himself. "I’ll wait for your signal, then?”

With a forced grin, Martin nodded. “Splitting up to look for clues. Right.” He marched off around the side of the house.

Jon waited, his ear still pressed to the door. There was no sound behind it. Not even the quiet skittering of thousands of chitinous legs.

“Go on!” Martin called from somewhere around the back of the house. “I’ve got eyes back here!”

Every muscle in his body was tensed. Jon wasn’t sure why. What was he planning to do, sprint away if the door opened? Crash through if it didn’t? Take off at a run if Martin screamed? Pushing all those worries to one side, he knocked.

There was no answer. He waited a moment, squeezing his eyes shut in an attempt to focus on the silent halls beyond. No sound. No movement. Once more, he knocked. When another minute went by with no movement from inside, he tried the handle. It clicked open obligingly.

“Anybody home?” he called, not expecting an answer. “Martin, can you hear me?”

“Still here! Nothing’s come out!”

“Come back around, Martin. The door’s unlocked.”

The other man rounded the corner at a brisk pace, looking slightly pale. “Oh, good. I was trying to be ready for anything, but I think I mostly just got myself ready for a heart attack.”

Jon hummed in understanding. “Ready to go in?”

“Yeah. Better as a team, right?”

He nodded and turned the handle. Just like the door to Calvin’s apartment, it was a struggle to force open. Jon thought he could actually hear the shredding of web as he pushed the crack open wider. Martin braced a hand against the frame and rocked his shoulder into the door, pressing it in the rest of the way to reveal the dingy room beyond.

They stepped across the threshold, picking their way through dust and debris. Though the door had been webbed shut, the home wasn’t coated in cobwebs the way Calvin’s flat had been. Jon felt some of the tension leave him as he examined the unplugged fridge and the family photos clustered on one wall.

“I think that’s him.” Martin muttered, pointing to one photo in particular.

A young Chinese man in a button up and tie stood between an older man and woman, his hands clasped behind his back. He looked worn. Dark circles stood out below his eyes, and his shoulders were hunched in close to his neck. Still, he was smiling, his eyes directed not at the camera but at the beaming woman beside him.

The older man rested a hand on his shoulder, fingers digging in tight. He wore a close-cropped white beard and held a cane in one hand.

Jon leaned in to examine the photo. “That’s Calvin Tang in the middle?”

“Yeah, I recognize his face from his socials. So those must be…?”

“Lian Tang and Charles Blanken. Yes, I’d assume so. It is their home. Though, well, Mr. Blanken doesn’t seem to be in at the moment.”

Martin scanned the empty room. “If you think about it, we’re literally breaking and entering for no reason. Maybe he just isn’t home.”

“I encourage you to stop thinking about it.” Jon pulled a tape recorder from his pocket, ready to begin recording their investigations, and found it had already started running. It must have switched itself on in his pocket. “Let’s examine the other rooms.”

The house was as dull as it was apparently uninhabited. Dust hung less thick in some parts of the house than others. Some couches were clearly well-used, there were tracks worn into the grimy floorboards, and scattered dirty dishes sat moldering in the sink. It was clear that someone had been inhabiting the house recently, though they didn’t appear to be doing so anymore.

A few photos of Lian were on display in the bedroom. Jon kept his eyes peeled for any evidence of Calvin, but aside from the portrait in the living room, there didn’t seem to be a trace of him. He did his best to keep in sight of Martin. Certain as he was that the house was empty, it was hardly a single flat nestled in an otherwise bustling building. If they got separated and encountered something unpleasant, help wouldn’t be in easy reach.

Jon wasn’t sure exactly what sort of trouble he expected to run into. Neither Calvin Tang nor Charles Blanken seemed the type to hide in a linen closet with a cudgel and wait for intruders to walk through their unlocked door.

Still, he couldn’t shake Ms. Santos’s description of the massive leg that had landed on her window. Obviously, it could have been just that; a leg warped by the glass as Calvin Tang made his decidedly human escape. If Martin was correct, which Jon had no real reason to believe he wasn’t, nobody had left the house on their approach. He wanted very much to believe that meant they were alone.

Martin was busy poking through the closet of the guest bedroom. Across the hall, Jon noticed another door wreathed in web. He crept towards it and leaned in to listen. Nothing but the same dreary silence that filled the rest of the building. The door opened inwards. Jon readied his torch and shoved the door in. It was dark inside the little room, with a notable absence of windows except one above the bed that was quite firmly shuttered. Jon swung the beam of his torch around the room.

It lit on something dull white in the corner. He stepped in, searching the wall for a light switch. His fingers touched cool plastic and he flipped it back and forth in vain. The lights were out. He strode further into the room, eyes narrowed on the white bundle.

He froze as recognition hit him. A noise must have left his throat, because there was a clatter from the guest bedroom.

“Jon?” called Martin, voice pitched high. “Jon, what’s going on?” His voice was growing closer, and Jon lifted a useless hand towards the door.

“No—no, Martin—”

It was too late. Martin was through the door and frozen at Jon’s side. “Fuck,” he breathed.

His eyes were locked on the pale face of Charles Blanken. The old man had been cocooned in web. Silver strands forced his eyelids closed, crisscrossing his mouth and mingling with his white hair and beard. A blanket of thick cotton cobweb encased his whole body, thinning only at his face, mummifying him almost completely.

He was, Jon felt certain, very dead. His cheekbones were pressed tight to the surface, skin wrinkled like rotting fruit. The sunken hollows of his eyes were deep. Jon couldn’t shake the horrible thought that he looked—drained, somehow. As if he’d been sucked dry.

“He’s dead,” Martin whispered, the horror in his voice mingling with an almost indignant disbelief. “Oh my god, Jon, we found a dead guy. What are we supposed to do?”

“I’m… not sure. Call the police, I suppose?” Jon fished his mobile out of his pocket. “Are you okay?”

“What? Christ, Jon, no! No, I’m not okay! We just found a body!”

“Right. Unharmed, then.” He punched in 999 and was about to dial when Martin’s hand grasped his shoulder. “What?”

Martin turned his head to look at Jon. His face had bleached to white, each freckle standing out in sharp relief. His eyes were wide. Lips pressed into a wrinkled line, he swallowed. “Jon? Do you hear that?”

Jon turned off his phone and listened closely. For the first time since they’d entered the house, they were no longer wreathed in oppressive silence. Something was scratching at the back of Jon’s skull. The sound of hundreds, maybe thousands, of skittering legs and mandibles, ringing over each other in an endless unstoppable crawling. Jon looked up.

It was at that moment that the opaque sheet of web above them fell. In an instant, a hundred tiny crawling bodies dropped down onto his skin.

Martin screamed. Jon wanted to join him, but he knew the moment he opened his mouth they would crawl inside, skittering down his throat and into his stomach like wretched little pills. He could feel them writhing over his lips already. Legs scuttled around the curves of his ears, prodding at his nostrils and tangling themselves in his hair.

When Martin grabbed his hand a dozen spiders must have smashed between their palms. Jon let himself be dragged through the empty house, eyes and mouth still shut tight, bile rising in his throat as the spiders danced in masses over his neck and down the collar of his shirt. He simply couldn’t tell anymore what were goosebumps and what were the creeping multitudes of arachnids. Distantly, he recognized that his body was wracked by shaking tremors.

The weight of Martin’s hands on his back only shook him half out of his daze. He could feel him wiping at his shirt, running fingers through the tangles of his hair, brushing leggy clumps off of his face. Jon wanted to help—wanted to be useful, _needed_ to get the spiders off of himself as fast as possible—he just couldn’t move.

Martin’s hand smeared across his cheek, and Jon realized he was crying. Sobbing, if the pitiful sounds muffled by his locked lips were anything to go by. He wanted to speak or scream or breathe but he couldn’t open his mouth because if he opened his mouth the spiders would get in and they would be inside him and he would die and he would be made of spiders and they would get him and—

Jon was on the ground, one of Martin’s arms wrapped around his chest, sucking in too many breaths too fast through his nose. Martin was still brushing at his shoulders and chest. He was talking, too, but there was a ringing in Jon’s ears and oh god, oh god what if the spiders had gotten into his ears, what if he was dying, what if they were spinning webs inside his _skull_ —

One of Martin’s hands rested on his cheek. “Jon?” he was saying. “Jon, can you hear me? I—I think I got most of them off. There’s—you don’t have to open your eyes, it’s okay, but can you just let me know you’re okay? Jon?”

Eyes and mouth still shut stubbornly tight, Jon reached up to grab Martin by the front of his coat. He buried his face in the material. It didn’t matter if there were spiders on it. There were spiders on everything. Jon couldn’t stop crying, and he couldn’t slow his breathing, and he couldn’t open his eyes or they would _get_ him.

“I’m going to stand you up, okay? I—I think if you give me a few minutes I can get the rest of them off. Just—hold still. Can you get up?”

Jon let Martin hoist him back onto his feet. He stayed frozen as the other man worked him over, plucking spiders from his hair and back. Martin tugged at the sleeve of his coat, and Jon slipped it off without protest. He stood there for an eternity, still feeling the disembodied prickle of legs on every inch of his skin, throat choked with phlegm. His legs were shaking.

“I think that’s the last of them,” Martin finally said, running his finger one last time around the back of Jon’s collar. “Can you feel any others?”

Slowly, Jon opened his eyes a crack. Martin’s face was streaked with pale blue splotches, and a few dismembered legs were still stuck in his hairline, but the majority of their arachnid assailants really did seem to be gone.

“We need to call someone,” Jon whispered, his voice thick with tears.

Martin took his hand again. Jon didn’t mind. “I already called 999. I didn’t tell them we’d broken in—just that we were trying to follow up on an investigation and weren’t able to reach him, even at his home. I’m sure they’ll be by soon. Come on, let’s get you somewhere with a shower. Think you can make it to my flat?”

The prickling in his skin was beginning to subside. “You want to go from the spider house to the worm flat?”

Martin didn’t laugh. His face crumpled a bit, in fact, and he raised his free hand to brush at his own face again. “No. No, you’re right. Can we use the shower at your flat?”

Entirely against his will, Jon let out a choked noise of despair and looked down at the spider carcasses that littered the grass around them.

“Okay,” Martin sighed. “Not there either, then. So what? Back to the institute?”

Jon nodded, numb at the thought of sitting on the underground with smashed legs still plastered to his back. “The institute.”

Martin started walking, and Jon realized their hands were still joined. “Let’s at least find somewhere with a sink. I don’t want you riding back covered in spider guts.”

“Right.” Jon gripped Martin’s hand a little tighter, sniffing back a fresh wave of tears. “Okay. Thank you.”

* * *

Martin stared at the steaming kettle. His hair was still damp from its second rinse. He and Jon had washed themselves up in a Maccas bathroom, but the whole ride back to the institute he’d been sure he could feel spiders crawling down by the roots of his curls. He’d ducked his head under the faucet of the breakroom sink the moment he left Jon’s side.

The other man was sitting on the archival cot, being fussed over in turns by Tim and Sasha. He’d barely spoken since they left the home of the late Charles Blanken. Martin had never seen him look so pale and withdrawn. He wished there was something he could do that was more useful than making tea. He’d felt so powerless watching Jon cry, dark hair thick with spiders, his shaking legs unable to hold him up once they stepped outside.

Martin had never been scared of spiders, but he wasn’t sure the new wave of disgust he felt picturing their twitching legs would ever disappear. It must have been so much worse for Jon. They’d managed to get everything off, rinsing away spiders, legs, and blood splatters, but Jon couldn’t seem to stop scratching at his arms as if a layer of arachnids still clung to his skin.

He poured out four mugs of tea and set them on a tray. He didn’t trust his own hands to stay stable as he padded through the archives. Tim opened the door for him, and he bit his lip as he watched Sasha wrap the fleece blanket tighter around Jon’s shoulders.

“I, uh… I made tea,” Martin announced.

Tim snagged his mug and took a long sip, smacking his lips at the end. “Perfection in a cup, as always, my good Martin.”

Martin made his way across the room to pass Sasha her mug. She smiled and scooted away.

Jon looked up, his skin still ashen and his eyes unnaturally wide. “Martin,” he murmured, still not making eye contact.

“Made you some tea,” Martin repeated, holding the cup out for Jon to take.

Jon looped a few fingers through the handle, but Martin could tell that if he let go the mug would just clatter to the floor. Gingerly, he reached out to take Jon’s hand. He curled the other man’s cold fingers around his cup.

“There you go,” he added, reaching out to pull the blanket over Jon’s lap. He ignored what sounded almost like a giggle from Sasha. It wasn’t jealousy, or overprotectiveness, he just happened to think the blanket would sit better that way. That was all.

Jon bent over the cup and took a deep breath. Steam fogged up his glasses. He sipped slowly, and when he was done he still hovered over the mug, letting another breath in and out. “Thank you, Martin. I needed that.” Limbs still unsteady, he shifted over to one side of the cot and patted the space beside him.

Martin dropped down onto the bed before he could second-guess the gesture. He was very conscious of the space where their knees knocked against each other. Jon shifted, and Martin could almost swear he felt the other man press his arm up along Martin’s side.

Tim caught Martin’s eye and flashed him a suggestive smirk.

“All right,” Jon continued, still clutching his cup of tea. “We’re clearly on the right track with Calvin Tang’s case. We’ll have to dig deeper, which may prove difficult now that the police are involved. I’ll need all three of you to turn your attention to further research. Can I count on you?”

“Yes,” Martin said.

Sasha nodded. “Of course!”

Still smirking, Tim balanced his chin in his hand. “Hmm, I don’t know, boss. Can you ever _really_ trust any of us to do our jobs?”

Jon sent him a weak glare.

“Tim,” Sasha warned.

“I’m joking!” Tim rolled his eyes. “Obviously you can count on us. We’ll be a crack crime-solving team. A regular Scooby gang.”

“I’m already beginning to wish I hadn’t asked,” Jon groaned, taking another slow sip of tea.

Tim joined Sasha on the floor and began to theorize about which member of Mystery Incorporated each of them represented.

Jon looked as disapproving and grumpy as he ever had, but he didn’t shift away from Martin. Behind his careful sips of tea Martin thought he could see the ghost of a smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim is Fred (hot but foolish himbo). Sasha is Velma (the smart one and I’m in love with her). Martin is Shaggy (the chill one, most affected by group conflict and always underestimated). Jon is Daphne (constantly kidnapped but somehow still a badass). No I will not be taking criticism, but feel free to nominate your choice for Scooby!! 
> 
> Last episode had me in my FEELINGS for the platonic life partners known as Breekon and Hope, and I’d love it if you could give my existential oneshot [Better Half](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919670) a read.
> 
> All my love goes out to the growing crowd of repeat commenters!! <3 Thanks to Aryashi for insightful comments, the_maybe for adorable reactions, Ixempt for detailed feedback, and as always the eloquent shhdontlook!! Recognizing y’all’s names sparks joy :)


	8. Wash The Web Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin have a bit of a heart to heart. Local man Tim Stoker develops local plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No spiders in this one, lads, just saps.
> 
> Heartfelt thanks to the usual gang of commenters, who I adore, and to tnetennba for commenting early and often. Shout out to Lemongrass13 for the BRILLIANT suggestion that the dog in the archives was Scooby Doo. That's one mystery solved!

Jon worked late in the archives that night. Talking with Tim, Sasha, and Martin had taken a load off of his bony shoulders—shoulders that still shook with full-body shudders whenever a close breeze or a scrap of fabric brushed over his skin like dancing legs. He was in over his head with Calvin Tang’s case; there was no doubt about that. What mattered was that he had people on his side. People he could trust to follow through.

As much as he was used to deriding the filing skills of his archival assistants, he was also certain that they could be relied upon for—at the very least—serviceable research. Serviceable research the lot of them had also stayed late to get a start on. He felt a swell of pride at their dedication to the archives. Normally, he would’ve resented their presence after hours, but for once he allowed himself to feel a sense of camaraderie instead.

Something about Sasha and Tim’s bright banter also led him to guess they were staying in part for Martin’s benefit. Maybe even for his own benefit, he realized, ignoring the rush of warmth he felt at the idea. He was an adult. He didn’t need his coworkers to hang around and supervise him any more than Martin did, really. Still, it was a kind gesture.

He realized with a small shudder that Martin would be left alone in the archives once the rest of them headed home. Obviously, the other man had been more on edge since the worm incident. He could only imagine what it would be like to lie in the dark archives all alone with the threat of attack hanging over his head. Two calamities in such a short span of time. Jon was beginning to think he might owe Martin an official apology in his capacity as Head Archivist. Surely being trapped in his flat for almost two weeks and showered in spiders hadn’t been part of Martin’s employment contract.

Even in Jon’s own flat, he knew he’d be kept awake by skittering sounds, startling every time a blanket brushed his arm. Perhaps it would be better if he didn’t even try to go to sleep. By the time he eventually collapsed, ideally some time the next day once it was light out, his body would be so worn out he might have no dreams at all.

Luckily, Martin didn’t seem to have been impacted by their arachnid adventure in the same way Jon had been. At least thus far. It was almost a surprise, considering that they had in fact discovered a dead body. Whereas Jon had completely frozen in the face of what he could say with reasonable certainty had been his worst nightmare, Martin had taken charge and resolved the situation quite handily. Jon could appreciate that sort of efficient work. Perhaps Martin deserved a bit more credit for his admirable stiff upper lip in the face of danger. Well, not that Martin’s lips were very particularly stiff.

 _Stop thinking about his lips_ , a helpful corner of Jon’s brain automatically piped up.

He peered out of his office to survey his assistants at work.

Sasha had buried herself in a stack of reference books on spiders. Her box braids were swept back into a tight bun, and her finger traced down the page with pinpoint precision, guiding her eyes as she sped through the material. Her forehead was wrinkled in concentration.

Beside her, Tim was busily wooing his way through police-adjacent informants, trying to get at the results of the investigation into Charles Blanken’s death. The two of them had pressed their desks closer together, he noticed. Tim occasionally reached out to pluck one of Sasha’s sticky tabs and write a note on it. Every so often he would cover the mouthpiece of his phone so the two of them could share smirks and winks at the expense of the person on the other end.

Martin had his face practically glued to the screen of his computer. Jon had given him free rein over investigating Calvin Tang’s social media presence, something Jon personally had no idea how to follow up on. Martin had dedicated himself to the task with single-minded fervor. As much as Jon would have once hated to admit it, the other man had been quite clever about it so far. Posing as Calvin’s neighbor using clues gleaned from Yukti and Maribel’s statements, Martin had made enough concerned comments on posts that Calvin’s few university friends were beginning to reach out for information. Apparently, none of them had been able to get in touch with Calvin for weeks.

While Martin theorized in a group chat with two of Calvin’s friends about where he might have gone if he found himself sick or in trouble, Jon gently closed his office door and got back to his own work, a pile of statements related to spiders. He’d given up on getting anything useful from Carlos Vittery’s testimony.

Something tightened in his stomach as he stared at the tape recorder on his desk. Perhaps he should give his own statement. He’d run the facts over a thousand times in his head, and he was pretty sure they wouldn’t be helpful to his team. Speaking them out loud also carried a toll of vulnerability Jon wasn’t quite ready to pay. Still, he’d already managed to put one of his assistants in a great deal of danger, and if giving his own statement could prevent it from happening again, he felt he had a responsibility to do so.

Of course, it had been Martin’s decision to break in through a basement window and return there in the dark of night. Jon just couldn’t put aside the way Martin had justified it. _I didn’t want to come back to you without due diligence, though._ _I’ve learned that lesson._ He swallowed, put on edge by the uncomfortable tightness of his throat. _I was worried I hadn’t really done enough investigation for you._

He’d been holding on to an apology ever since Martin’s return. He had hoped the care package would suffice, but the more time he spent with Martin the more he was beginning to perceive that the man operated best with honesty and openness. Probably with—ugh—clear verbal affirmations. Jon knew himself well enough to be certain he was no expert in those areas.

Glaring down at a box of manila folders, Jon wet his chapped lips. His energy was beginning to sap. He’d been off-kilter all day, even after rinsing himself off in the bathroom sink and changing into the spare sleep clothes he kept in one of his desk drawers. He could use a pick-up. Perhaps he could try to wrest some hot water from the scrapped-up microwave in the break room.

As if summoned by the blasphemy of microwave tea, a knock came on his office door. “Jon?” Martin was muffled by the door. “Brought you some tea.”

The moment he heard Martin’s voice, Jon felt tension bleed out of his shoulders. Something about the little ritual soothed him instantly. Martin was there with tea just when he needed it. Martin was there when Jon needed things surprisingly often; ready with tea and scarves and large hands to pull him to safety and brush fear away from him.

Jon realized with a start that he’d spent entirely too long thinking about how personally reliable his employee was. More importantly, said employee was waiting outside his office door with rapidly cooling tea.

Instead of inviting him in, Jon strode over to the door himself. He swung it inwards and stood face to face with Martin. The other man flushed and took a small step back, holding one of the mugs of tea clutched in his hands out to Jon. A quick glance told him that Martin had already delivered tea to Tim and Sasha.

“Martin, would you step into my office for a moment?”

The hand holding Jon’s mug withdrew. Martin pressed both cups in close to him like a safety shield, looking almost ashamed. “Ah, yeah. Of course.”

Jon pushed aside his confusion at Martin’s reaction for long enough to let him in, shut the door behind him, and take a seat at his desk. Martin stood awkwardly in the center of the room. With a slight sigh, Jon gestured for the stool propped up in the corner, recently emptied of boxes.

Before sitting down, Martin deposited Jon’s tea on his desk. He cradled his own mug like a tiny life preserver.

With a more pleased sigh, Jon inhaled the steam rising off his tea. He took a long sip. It was nice, something calming and vaguely floral. “Thank you, Martin. This is… just what I needed.”

To his relief, a sliver of the tension on Martin’s face slipped away. “O-oh! That’s great. I mean, you’re welcome.”

They sat in silence while Jon took another sip. Finally, he set the mug down and sorted through the papers on his desk, mentally shuffling through his thoughts in an attempt to figure out how to phrase things. On the one hand, Jon owed Martin an apology. On the other hand, an apology for the Prentiss incident was by that point long overdue, and Martin’s recent arachnid experience was somewhere in the nebulous space between tragedy and workplace hazard that Jon wasn’t sure it was really appropriate to apologize for. Jon hadn’t had much practice with apologies. He wasn’t accustomed to being lovely or conciliatory. Really, he wasn’t accustomed to feeling sorry. He’d just settled on apologizing for both, for Prentiss in his capacity as Martin’s boss and for the spiders in his capacity as a person who had been there and felt apologies were due from _someone_ , when Martin broke the silence.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice oddly thick. “Jon, I’m really, really sorry, I know I should have listened, and I’m—”

“What?” Jon interrupted, looking up from his papers.

Martin met his eyes, and Jon was both surprised and a little horrified to realize Martin appeared to be crying. “The spiders! You—you told me not to go into the room, but I did anyway, and then I—I _heard_ them but I didn’t _do_ anything, and then I was, I was totally _useless_ once we’d gotten outside, and I called the police without even—without even asking you! I know you think I’m a bad researcher, and I thought I could prove myself, but I just made everything worse! And now everyone’s staying late because they know I’m scared to be alone here, and I’m—I’m sorry, Jon, I _am_ scared, and I was scared in the house too, I didn’t— I just—I’m sorry!” He broke off into truly pitiful sniffling.

Behind his desk, Jon was completely frozen. His brain whirred like an overheated computer drive as he tried to process everything that had just come tumbling out of Martin’s mouth. Meanwhile, Martin heaved quiet sobs from the corner.

Jon got up almost automatically. He had watched people comfort others before. He’d even had a go at it himself a few times, rubbing Georgie’s back during particularly rough exam seasons and holding his grandmother’s gnarled hand at yet another funeral service for one of her distant friends. He wasn’t particularly good at any of it, but he certainly knew the motions.

He approached Martin very cautiously, as if he were a pile of plastic explosives ready to go off in Jon’s office. Martin was already crying, Jon reasoned, so it wasn’t as if he could do much worse. He got down on one knee so that he wouldn’t be looking down at Martin.

As a child, Jon had tended to cry silently, his face smashed into a pillow so his grandmother wouldn’t be disturbed by the noise. The few times she had comforted him had mostly been in the wake of his parents’ death. His memories of that time were very fuzzy, but he knew it had been almost scary when she loomed above him as he cried.

Even more cautiously than he had approached, Jon rested a hand on Martin’s knee. “No. No, Martin, it’s—you’re okay. Just, uh, breathe, all right? You’re—it’s going to be okay. Why don’t you, um, have some of that tea?”

Tears were streaming down Martin’s face. The dark circles under his eyes were so much more pronounced up close, and Jon felt something tugging in his chest. Martin probably dealt with far more than his fair share of rough nights alone in the archives. More than likely he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since he left his own flat. After all, he’d just admitted to Jon that he was scared. How much worse would it be that night, strands of web no doubt still clinging to his hair?

Slowly, as if it took a great deal of energy just to raise the cup, Martin lifted his mug to his lips and drained some of the tea. He looked down at Jon, still sniffling. “Sorry,” he murmured again.

Jon intentionally forced his face not to contort into a grimace. “Martin, please. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“But it was my fault, Jon. You…” Martin’s voice was clogged with snot and tears. He sounded wrecked, and Jon decided that his assessment of Martin as being more or less fine had been almost comically far off.

“No, it wasn’t.” Jon wasn’t much for comforting, but he was excellent when it came to debate. “Your entering the room likely had nothing to do with the spiders dropping. More importantly, without you there I have no clue how long it would have taken me to get out, much less to get back to the institute. You made the right decision when you phoned the police, and I was in no state to assist you.”

Martin heaved a deep breath, as if to argue back, but instead broke off into another round of broken gasps. Fewer tears were leaking from his eyes. Jon hoped that meant he was doing the whole ‘comforting’ thing right.

He patted Martin’s knee a bit awkwardly, as his hand was already there and he felt he might as well make use of it. “I don’t know that I would have, ah, made it out of there at all. Without you, that is. I mean…” he tried to suppress a shudder and failed spectacularly. “Were I alone, I doubt I would have been able to run. The police might have had two bodies on their hands. Anyway, ah, my apologies, that’s quite dark. I was simply trying to, well. Thank you, Martin.”

Too late, Jon realized he’d been staring at a spot in the middle of Martin’s jumper for his entire speech. He raised his head. Martin was looking at him with an expression of slack-jawed wonderment that seemed entirely at odds with the situation.

Also, he was still crying. It had slowed considerably, at least, and Jon felt rather proud at having at least provided a distraction. He got to his feet, joints cracking and popping away like a merry fire. “Besides,” he continued, feeling much more confident, “I actually called you in here to apologize for everything you’ve experienced regarding recent investigations.”

“Wait, what?” Martin swiped at his eyes with one sleeve. “What’ve you got to apologize for? I’m the one causing problems for everybody. And— _ugh_ , crying in your office. Christ, Jon, I’m sorry. This was so unprofessional, I’m just—there’s been so much going on, I thought you were—I don’t know, going to fire me, or something.”

Jon only realized when Martin flinched that his face had twisted into an expression somewhere between exasperation and utter disgust. He ran a hand over it, carefully schooling his expression back into something more neutral. He wasn’t angry at Martin at all. He _was_ angry, though he wasn’t quite sure why, but he knew it wasn’t with Martin. It was more of a general anger at the universe. And perhaps a bit of specific anger at—oh. Oh. Yes, perhaps some specific anger.

“Martin. I—that is—well. I am sorry I gave you that impression.” Jon’s mouth was dry again for an entirely different reason. “I’ll admit that my conduct as your boss has not always been the most professional. To return to what you said earlier, I’d like you to know that you are… I don’t think you’re a bad researcher. I simply—well, suffice it to say that I have rather let my own biases sour the working environment. I believe I owe you an apology for that.”

If he thought Martin’s expression had been awed before, it was rapidly approaching a kind of reverence that made Jon feel like his face and neck had been badly sunburned.

“Oh! Oh—no, Jon, it’s fine, that’s—I mean, thank you. Thank you. That—it means a lot to hear that from you. But really, I understand. I’m—I don’t have the most experience, and I know my work isn’t always up to your standards, and you didn’t request for me to work in the archives in the first place. Um. I don’t hold that against you.”

“Well, perhaps you should. But, uh.” Jon tottered back to his desk and drained the rest of his tea in one go. “To be honest, Martin, I think that’s about as much of a heart to heart as I can handle at the moment. In summary: I apologize for my rudeness, and for putting you in danger, and I thank you for your… uh…” He wracked his brain for one more brush with which to wipe the raw pain off Martin’s face. “I thank you for your invaluable assistance. Anyway, that’s all.”

“Right,” Martin croaked, stumbling to his feet. He collected the empty mug from Jon almost robotically and shuffled towards the door. “Thanks, Jon.”

Jon was about to reply when Martin sniffled again, and he realized the tears were back. His mouth fell open. He thought he’d done it. He’d done the comforting thing and gotten Martin to stop crying. And then he’d tried to be even nicer and the crying had _started up again_!

Martin pushed through the door, leaving Jon alone to his existential crisis.

* * *

Martin was having an existential crisis.

“Invaluable assistance,” he mouthed under his breath, sinking into the shape of the words.

Jon had apologized. Jon had _thanked_ him, down on one knee with his slim hand resting on Martin’s leg like an anchor. Martin pressed his face into the row of books in front of him and let out a very muffled scream. A permanent smile stretched his tear-stained cheeks, and he was still sniffling. Martin could very well have lived on quiet shared smiles and _thank you for the tea_ forever. Faced with raw honestly and what seemed like a heartfelt apology, he was seconds away from fainting if he couldn’t get his breathing under control.

Martin was too far gone. He’d just broken down in tears in the office of his boss _and_ workplace crush. If you’d asked him that morning what he thought Jon’s response to that would be, he probably would have offered a best-case scenario of some anxious hand wringing and a distasteful glare. Maybe a tissue if Jon was feeling particularly charitable. More likely, he would have expected Jon to turn green and detail his severance package on the spot.

He couldn’t stop fixating on different moments. Even through bleary tear-drowned eyes, Jon had been beautiful in his casual clothes, hair loose and damp around his shoulders. Martin had been able to study his face as he knelt on the floor in front of him. The sharp angles of his cheekbones and nose, the fine lines of his lips, the streaks of sterling hair cascading down to frame his face. He was pretty sure Jon had never looked at him with such gentle sincerity in his deep brown eyes.

Martin didn’t even think he was ready to contemplate most of the things Jon had said to him. _You made the right decision. Thank you, Martin. I don’t think you’re a bad researcher. I believe I owe you an apology._ From anyone else, most of it would probably have been mere workplace courtesy. From Jon, those vague apologies were conjured up from a depth of feeling Martin hadn’t been sure the other man was capable of. Maybe he’d been underestimating Jon too, in a way. First a care package, then a sincere apology for being such a prat sometimes?

He had enough sappy poetry material to last him weeks.

“Okay in there, Mart-o?” Tim asked, peering down the aisle. “Sasha sent me on another reference book mission.”

Martin leaned away from the shelf and scrubbed his face. “Yeah! Yeah, totally fine. Can I help you find anything?”

Tim narrowed his eyes. “No offence, my main Martin, but you don’t look _totally fine_. I mean, you look damn fine. You just also look like you’re crying.” He tugged a bandana out of one of his pockets and held it out. “What did Jon do this time?”

“No! It was—hah—” Martin accepted the bandana and trumpeted his nose into it. “Jon didn’t start me crying. Or, well, I guess he did? Sorry, I mean not in the way you’re thinking. He was really, really nice, actually.”

Slumping his shoulder against a nearby bookshelf, Tim crossed his arms. His trademark smirk lanced across his face. “So you cry when he’s mean, you cry when he’s nice, you cry when he ‘lets his hair down and the lamplight illuminates him in a halo of silver’—”

“I do _not_ ,” Martin gasped, immediately blushing so bright he could have cast lamplight himself.

“You know I _can_ hear you recording poetry when I sort files in the back rooms, right? I usually try not to listen—not that it’s bad, just because I’m a nice guy—but you get a bit loud when it comes to Jon.” Tim winked. “If I wrote poetry for Sash she’d probably skip right past the will-they-won’t-they to asking for my hand in marriage. Maybe you should share a couple tapes with him?”

Martin slid down to the floor and buried his face in his knees, letting out a groaning noise of reproach. “Tim! Why didn’t you tell me you could hear?”

“I like getting all my hot office gossip right from the source. Besides, it’s not like I’ve learned anything important from it. I mean, I’m sure you think the ‘cast of his jaw as he studies the page’ is important or whatever, but I already knew you were in love with our grumpy old boss. In fact, I’d say just about everyone at the institute knows it. Other than Jon.”

“He’s not that old,” Martin grumbled.

Tim sighed. “Now you’re even starting to sound like him. Buck up, Martin. If he’s actually being _nice_ to you in the way normal human beings are to each other, maybe you can still manage a spring wedding.”

Choking on air, Martin covered his ears with his palms. “Oh, come off it, Tim. I know he doesn’t like me. It’s fine. That’s not why I was crying.”

A presence slid down onto the floor beside him. He felt Tim’s shoulder bump against his. “D’you want to talk about it? Not Jon, I mean. What had you crying. Or I suppose about Jon if you really must.”

“What, so you can keep making fun of me?” Martin lifted his head just enough to give Tim a watery grin. He found the other man looking fondly back at him.

“Maybe a bit. Can’t help my nature. But you know I’m here for you, right? So is Sasha. And I guess apparently Jon, though that’s not much help if he’s the one making you cry.”

Martin’s weak smile grew wider. “Yeah, Tim. I know—and it means a lot. Thank you.”

Tim landed a light punch on his arm. “Oh, whatever. Now you’ll have me crying too. Why don’t we get Jon and Sasha in here and have a neat little office cry-fest?”

“Actually, shouldn’t you all be headed home soon?” Martin tried to hide the wobble in his voice as he thought about going to sleep in his cot again.

What would come for him next? He’d had worms and spiders already. Was he due for an invasion of moths? Salamanders? At least he’d have plenty of Jon material to daydream about until the nightmares swept in.

One fist propped under his chin, Tim made a show of being lost in thought. “Hmm. Good point. On the one hand, we do need to sleep. On the other hand, you won’t want to be alone in here, and we can’t let your perfectly good romantic progress slip away. Jon’s been recently traumatized—that means it’s the perfect time to pressure him into light and innocent party games with friends!”

“Why would we be playing party games in the archives?”

Another wink. “Don’t you worry, Martin. As always, the brilliant Timothy Stoker has devised a solution to all of your problems.” Tim got to his feet and held out a hand to help Martin up. “Ready for a bit of chaos?”

Martin took it and was promptly hauled to his feet. “I’d like to hear a bit more of the plan first, I think.”

“Here’s a hint: it starts with ‘sleep’ and ends with ‘over’. Well, ideally it ends with you making out with Jon in his office while Sasha and I break something Elias holds dear, but let’s not get wrapped up planning.”

“I really don’t think Jon’s going to be okay with that,” Martin replied, following Tim back down toward the archives. He didn’t bother to hide his blush. “The sleepover, I mean. Or any of it.”

Tim paused in front of the door and leaned in, waggling his eyebrows suggestively. “I don’t know, Mart-o; I’d say most people in their right minds would jump at the chance to get acquainted with those pillowy lips of yours.”

“You know, it sounds really gross when you say it out loud like that.”

“Yeah, a bit. And I don’t know if the boss man is really in his right mind at all.” Tim turned the handle and took a deep breath, smiling almost predatorily. “But just trust me. I’m pretty sure we can get him to jump for it anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still trying to figure out a regular update schedule for this fic, but I'm leaning towards Thursdays. I'm putting this one out pretty early; if it does well I'll settle on Thursday morning, if it doesn't you can expect the next chapter next Thursday afternoon. If you're enjoying the story, please consider leaving a comment or kudos, it really makes my day <3


	9. A Fly In The Ointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The archival staff gets to know each other. Jon makes a discovery.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please accept this extra-long chapter of self-indulgent fluff followed by some major messing around with canon. Another reprieve from the horror! Enjoy it while it lasts, babes :)

The door burst open to let in a whirlwind. Jon almost dropped the file he’d been about to hand to Sasha.

“Archive sleepover!” Tim boomed, flying through the doorway with Martin trailing close behind. “Everybody put your normal boring work selves away and get ready for some good wholesome bonding!”

Automatically, Jon’s panicked gaze fell on Martin. The taller man looked deeply embarrassed. His cheeks were flushed a light pink and he quirked an apologetic smile in Jon’s direction. He was clutching the fleece blanket Jon had gifted him. For a moment, Jon thought Tim caught Martin on his way to bed, so he prepared himself to deliver a rousing verbal smackdown.

Instead, he followed that train of thought a little way further. It was getting late. Martin would certainly be heading to bed soon. The rest of them were likely to leave the institute and return home. Martin would therefore be left alone at the institute, unable to return home for fear of worms and no doubt still bothered by memories of spiders. Was it really fair to leave Martin alone with his CO2 canisters and the darkness?

He spared a glance over at Sasha’s desk. She had recently had her own strange experience. Though she bore it well, Jon imagined her encounter with the being that called itself Michael had probably left her rather shaken. It was quickly becoming clear to him that working in the archives was not as safe and removed an affair as he’d assumed it would be when he took the job. He thought about how that fear might weigh on his assistants. Infuriating, unprofessional, and occasionally mortifying to spend time with as they were, all three of them were dedicated to the archives. He resolved to do whatever he could to keep them safe and well. As their boss, it was the least he could do.

Sasha had already tossed her work aside and was busily casting off her jacket and shoes. “I nominate Tim as snack shopper! Can’t have a good sleepover without them. I also nominate Jaffa Cakes.”

Tim huffed. “Fine, but I nominate myself as head flavor-selector. I’m only buying marmite crisps. And the lot of you better like Maltesers. Jon? Martin? Requests?”

“Uh, Jon?” Martin cut in. “Are you—is this alright? I know it’s—I mean, with the work environment, I… um…”

Jon set the file he was holding down on Sasha’s desk. He decided, with a slightly forced smile, that he was essentially wearing pajamas already. “Just Ribena.”

“Right, and Jammie Dodgers for Martin!” Tim clapped his hands together. “Back in a jiff. Martin, be a dear and put the kettle on.”

Without Tim around, Jon allowed himself to hope that his other assistants would settle back down, perhaps allowing him to quietly sequester himself in his office before Tim’s return.

Sasha was having none of it. She took Martin’s blanket right out of his hands and began to arrange it on the floor. “Go on and grab the other, would you? And your pillow. And anything else cozy you’ve got lying around in there. We’re going to make a night of it, so help me.”

Martin scurried off to collect the rest of his bedding.

“Jon,” Sasha continued, narrowing her eyes at him. He let his hand slip off the door handle he’d just managed to grasp. “Clear those files away, all right? No work in the room until tomorrow morning. And I want you to go grab some of the cushions sitting ‘round the library.”

He threw his hands up in surrender. “Yes, fine, whatever you say.”

While he plucked cushions from their emptied chairs, Jon tried to steel himself for whatever Tim had planned. He had never really attended a sleepover. As a child, he hadn’t had anyone he thought of as a real friend; too busy burying his nose in books to bother with playmates. In college he had made a point of leaving most parties as early as possible. He and Georgie had stayed over at each other’s places before, of course, but there was a great deal of difference between spending the night with a partner and spending the night with a group of thrill-seeking… friends?

Sasha, Tim, and Martin were his coworkers. It wasn’t exactly standard professional fare for them to engage in such fraternizing. On the other hand, the institute was not a standard professional workplace. Normal coworkers probably did not sleep at their workplace with any sort of regularity. Martin literally lived in the archives and Jon had spent so many nights in his office that it was practically a second home. Was it really so strange for the rest of the archival staff to join in on the fun?

Not, Jon cautiously reminded himself, that Martin’s confinement to the archives was in any way _fun_. It was a massive inconvenience for the both of them. Aside from that incident with the word games, for which he had spent a considerable number of hours berating himself, Jon had done his level best to stay out of Martin’s way entirely. It was his responsibility as Martin’s boss to ensure that staying in the archives crossed no professional boundaries.

He squeezed a cushion to his chest. A sleepover, no matter how “good and wholesome” Tim claimed it would be, didn’t sound like an event that sat comfortably within Jon’s professional boundaries. On the other hand, it hadn’t been his idea. As long as he maintained his composure, the event could function as a subtle way to support Martin after a traumatic experience, and the modicum of respect Jon’s assistants held for him would not be compromised. That was if watching him shudder through a spider-induced breakdown hadn’t already destroyed it. In which case, Jon deadpanned to himself, the sleepover would pose no risk at all.

Sasha snatched the pile of cushions from his arms as he stepped back into the archives. She peered over the top at him, braids hanging loose around a gentle smile. “Thanks, Jon. You’re being a pretty good sport about all this.”

“Well, obviously it doesn’t conform to any standard of office professionalism.”

Sasha snorted.

“Still,” Jon continued through gritted teeth, “I suppose the company will do Martin good. As ill-advised as I believe it to be, I can appreciate Tim’s attempt to support a friend. It’s not as if you’re cutting into work hours.”

“As _if_ you’d have stopped working without us forcing you,” she sniffed. “But, really. I appreciate you making the effort. We all do. Speaking of Martin, he’s been off fetching tea for a while. Mind checking on him?”

Jon nodded. He headed off for the breakroom, trying to ignore Sasha’s odd grin. He had to admit that it was… nice to be recognized. Sasha didn’t seem to mind his lack of professionalism. Obviously, what mattered most was that his assistants performed their duties well— but Jon didn’t mind feeling appreciated.

* * *

Martin hovered over the kettle like a hummingbird homing in on nectar, flitting nervously around the breakroom kitchenette. He’d stacked a plate high with the remnants of biscuit tins that littered the cabinets. He couldn’t believe everyone had agreed to stay over at the archives—for _him_ —without any argument at all. Even Jon had given in!

Alone in the breakroom, Martin allowed himself a moment to hold the precious image of Jon in a loose t-shirt in his mind. The other man had looked so soft and comfortable. Normally, rumpled as they were, his blazers and tailored trousers gave off the air of a high-minded professorial type. Or a sexy librarian, as Tim was so fond of remarking into Martin’s ear with a smirk whenever Jon wasn’t paying attention. Martin’s contended brain drifted toward thoughts of what it might be like to hold Jon in those loose clothes. Curled up under a large blanket, perhaps, with rain beating against the windows, Jon pressed close to Martin’s chest for warmth.

“Ah, Martin,” Jon said, shattering his train of thought, “Sasha asked me to check on the tea. Is everything all right?”

The water, Martin realized, had boiled. “Yeah! Yeah, of course, uh, just thinking about what everyone might like to drink.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie. Of course, Martin knew exactly how Sasha and Tim took their tea. That still left him with the puzzle of what to brew for Jon. Something caffeinated, so he could stay up with the rest of them? There would be plenty of sugar in his Ribena. Maybe a mug of chamomile and honey to help him unwind from his constant tension in the presence of the assistants. 

“Well, whatever you brought earlier will be fine for me. Thanks.”

“Right!” Martin pulled a few boxes down from the cabinet. He turned to fetch the mugs and found that Jon had already collected four cups. He was busy arranging them on a platter with an expression of concentration entirely too intense for the task at hand. He stepped back to let Martin fuss over the cups.

“Is this how you always make tea?” Jon asked, looking down at the little quartet of mugs.

Martin just barely managed to avoid spilling boiling water on his own hand. He couldn’t fathom why Jon would suddenly have taken an interest in, of all things, Martin’s tea preparation methods. But he certainly wasn’t going to complain.

“Uh, no, not at home. I use—you know, a kettle and a pot? But everyone in the archives likes a different flavor, so I can’t exactly brew it all in one batch. At home I would warm the pot on the hob, get the water boiling, put some loose-leaf in the pot, and pour the water in at a good boil. I like a really dark tea, and I add my milk into the cup first, like Douglas Adams does. I only take it with sugar in the morning. And I don’t care what Orwell said, I strain the leaves out. That’s how my mum likes it.”

With anyone else, Martin would have felt rather stupid rambling about his ideal cup of tea, but Jon seemed rapt with attention. He’d leaned over the counter and steepled his hands together, resting his chin on his thumbs and watching Martin over the points of his fingers. After a few moments of silence he straightened back up and nodded.

“The way you make it here is good too, I think. Though I would pour the milk in after to better control the amount.”

Martin snorted. “Very Orwellian of you.” He picked up the tray and made for the door, Jon darting out ahead of him to hold it open. “And what if I don’t mind a little extra milk in my tea? Sometimes you need to indulge yourself a bit.”

Their debate was cut short when they arrived back in the archives to find Tim setting up a shrine of snack foods on Sasha’s desk. Somehow, Sasha had managed to conjure a few more blankets and pillows from nowhere, and she’d arranged them into a rather luxurious looking pile of cushions.

“Drink squad!” Tim cheered, hurrying over to take the tray from Martin’s hand. “Snack squad and cozy squad reporting in; mission is go. Fun squad—also snack squad—ready to break it down.”

Tim hurled himself into the middle of the pile of blankets, gesturing for the others to make themselves comfortable. Sasha settled in beside him. He threw an arm around her shoulders and popped a whole Jaffa Cake directly into his mouth.

“Let’s get this party started!” he said, voice muffled by a mouthful of crumbs.

Martin glanced over to Jon. The other man was huddled up against the doorframe, one of his arms locked in a protective bar against his chest. His expression was shifting from judgmental frustration to something that looked more like nervousness. Calmly, Martin crossed the room and sat on a cushion, pulling a blanket up around his shoulders.

He looked back and had to tamp down a pleased blush. Jon’s gaze had followed him across the room. Keeping up his forced casual air, Martin patted the cushion beside him, smiling in a way that he hoped came across as comforting rather than eager. Without waiting to see if Jon responded, he turned to Tim. “Pass me the Jammie Dodgers, would you?”

“Right-o, Mart-o.” Tim stretched his arm out behind him, fumbling around blindly on Sasha’s desk until he managed to snag the packet of biscuits. “There you go! And a Ribena for our archivist.”

Martin barely suppressed a squeak. While he’d been looking away, Jon had settled onto the cushion beside him. He held himself stiffly, hands clasped in his lap, sitting cross-legged on a thin blanket. He accepted the drink with a curt nod.

“Jammie dodger?” Martin asked, offering the package on instinct.

Jon shook his head. “Thank you, Martin, but I—wait, weren’t these strawberry?”

“What?” Martin looked down at the package. _Jammie Dodgers Raspberry_ , it read in bubbly white font. “Uh, no, I think they’ve always been raspberry.”

“No way,” Tim interrupted. “They’re just—I mean, they’re like, red flavor. I always thought they were strawberry.”

Sasha bit into a Jaffa Cake. “No, they’re definitely raspberry. As a kid, I thought they were cherry, and when my mum showed me the ingredients I started crying and refused to eat them. I’ve preferred Jaffa Cakes ever since.”

Tim clapped his hands. “All right, well, as much as I love to sit here and listen to Sasha tell me off, I think it’s time we move on to some party games!”

Jon rolled his eyes so hard it was almost audible. “Childish as ever, Tim.”

“Boss, that hurts me. You want something a bit more mature? Fine. Why don’t we wait until you finish that Ribena and have a nice game of spin the bottle?”

Unfortunately, Jon had just taken a sip of said Ribena, and he immediately choked on it. Martin rested a hand on Jon’s back as the other man coughed, eyes watering.

“Absolutely not!” he gasped, voice rough, before spiralling back into another coughing fit.

“What about Never Have I Ever?” Sasha suggested. “I’d say eat a snack if you ever have, but if Jon’s going to choke and die, maybe we should just put down fingers.”

* * *

Jon had no clue how he’d managed to get himself roped into infantile party games, of all things, on a work night. He took an angry bite of the Jammie Dodger that Martin had slipped him. At least the food was good; though the night would likely be a total write-off in terms of productivity, he could appreciate the merits of a bottle of Ribena alongside tea and biscuits. He wasn’t usually much for sweets. There was just something so deeply nostalgic about it, with the setting and the late hour and the childhood treats. Nostalgia for a time Jon had never really experienced.

The four of them were arranged in a rough circle facing a central cushion on which rested an open packet of crisps. Rather than taking a drink, as no one but Tim was particularly keen on smuggling alcohol into the archives, they would simply eat a crisp if they had done something.

Jon hadn’t played Never Have I Ever since university. Even then, he’d been easy to single out. He usually finished a game with two shots where others took ten. His quiet childhood followed by a relatively introverted time in school meant that he simply hadn’t had many unusual life experiences.

Well, not until he started working at the institute. “Never have I ever had a coworker go missing because of violent worms” wasn’t the sort of thing to come up in most games anyway.

“I’ll start!” Tim chirped, swallowing the last of his fourth Jaffa Cake. “Never have I ever… been scared of spiders.”

The glare Jon prepared to level at Tim as he reached for a crisp was mollified by the sudden obvious drop in Martin’s mood.

“Not before today I wasn’t,” the larger man groaned, snagging a crisp of his own. “I still think they’re important parts of the ecosystem. And, objectively, some of the fuzzy ones are cute. I just… don’t think I’ll want them near me for a good long while.”

Sasha flexed her fingers. “Me next! Never have _I_ ever won a drinking game. Not for lack of trying, but I think crisps are more my speed.”

Tim plucked his chip from the bag with a smile. When Martin followed suit, he gasped, pressing a hand to his chest. “Mr. Blackwood? A hard partier this whole time, and you never _told_ me?”

Jon found himself surprised as well. It wasn’t that he’d assumed Martin was a lightweight, necessarily. It was just that Martin was so… homey. He hadn’t imagined Martin was the kind of person to hit the clubs, or whatever it was people did when they weren’t studying too late in campus libraries or staying in with their cat. Besides, the last time (the only time) Jon had ever seen Martin at a pub, he’d been plenty flushed after just one drink.

In fact, Martin was flushing at that very moment. “Oh, come off it, Tim. Some coworkers dragged me out for my eighteenth and forced me to play 21. I only say I won because I was last standing. And, you know—I’m kind of a big guy, I guess? Hard to knock down.”

With a creeping sense of confusion, Jon realized he was smiling at the story. There was just something—something funny, perhaps, about the idea of Martin blithely counting up while friends toppled around him. Jon could imagine Martin tipsy and laughing, his curls bouncing as he tried to follow the shifting directions, a wide grin on his lips.

He could imagine it, but he tried very hard not to.

“So I’ve been underestimating you all this time,” Tim mused. “Also, it’s your go.”

“O-oh! Right! Um… never have I ever, uh, left the country.”

Jon, Tim, and Sasha took crisps in succession.

“Really?” Jon couldn’t help asking. “Not once?”

Martin shook his head, looking as per usual a bit embarrassed. “No. I’ve always wanted to take a big holiday, but my mum doesn’t like leaving the area, and I try to keep pretty close by so I can check in on her. She used to talk about visiting our family in Poland one day, but we never got around to it. It gets pricey.”

That was interesting. Martin had family in Poland. Martin wanted to go on holiday but had never gotten to. Jon filed those facts away without stopping to consider too closely his reasons for wanting to remember them. Usefully, the expectant expressions of his coworkers clued him in to the fact that it was his turn.

He allowed himself a moment to glower. “I don’t see why I’m being forced to participate in this. But I suppose I have never gone kayaking.”

Tim sighed. “Jon, you’re _supposed_ to say ‘never have I ever’!” He took a crisp anyway, as did Sasha. “Back to me, then. Never have I ever… had a crush on a coworker!”

Martin audibly gasped, which was fortunate, as it made Jon’s noise of abject horror sound like less of an overreaction. “Tim! That is—that is a _completely_ inappropriate question for an office setting. We are all coworkers!”

Tim popped a crisp into his own mouth. “Worth a shot. Fine, fine, nobody has to answer. I’ve done a lot, you know. Makes for a difficult game.” He snapped his fingers. “Actually, you know what I’ve always wanted to do? Never have I ever played in a band.”

Jon sat frozen as Tim’s curious eyes scanned the circle. He bit down on the inside of his own lip. He could simply… choose not to reveal himself. His coworkers didn’t need to know anything about him. Besides, they hadn’t found any of his old music yet, and he’d prefer to keep it that way. Something about lying by omission in what was clearly meant to be a bonding environment just made him feel so dreadfully uncomfortable.

His hand shot out and grabbed a crisp before he could think better of it.

Sasha burst into uproarious laughter. Tim’s jaw dropped, and he flopped forward onto his stomach, looking up at Jon in awe. “Jon. Boss. _Jon_. Tell me it’s true. I’ll do anything, Jon, just please tell me you used to be cool.”

Martin, Jon noticed, didn’t seem to be managing to say anything. His face had turned red—perhaps out of a sense of empathetic shame—and he was studiously avoiding eye contact.

“Yes, I was in a band in uni.” Jon crossed his arms. Something about Tim’s reaction made him feel a sort of need to prove himself. So it hadn’t been a particularly popular band. Jon was proud of their music, and yes, he thought he _had_ been rather cool back in those days. “We sang neo-folk shanty ballads in costume.”

The onslaught of questions that followed nearly sent him scurrying back into his office and locking the door. If Jon had known that bringing up his musical career would arouse such research instincts in his assistants, perhaps he would have tried it earlier. As it was, he found he didn’t really mind sharing more details of his time playing crowded college bars and minor festivals.

Tim discussed some of his own exploits at crowded college bars and festivals, earning groans and a few shocked gasps of his own right. He was midway through the tale of the time a friend had dared him to try and pick up every member of their school’s fifteen-strong rugby team in succession by the time Sasha finally managed to reign him in.

“Tim, seriously! If you say ‘scoring with a rugby boy’ one more time, I think Jon’s going to have a conniption.”In turn, she regaled them with tales of academia’s dark side, along with a few institute anecdotes from Gertrude’s time as archivist that the rest of them had never been privy too.

Martin didn’t have many stories of his own, but at Tim’s prodding he admitted to writing some “very amateur poetry”, as he described it. Jon had been his band’s primary lyricist, but the stuttered exclamations that poured out of Martin when he offered to look over the other man’s work and exchange feedback some time was utterly incomprehensible.

As the night wore on, Jon found himself feeling comfortable with the easy camaraderie of his coworkers. Friends, he supposed. With his friends. It was nice to relax for a night and return to lighter subjects than killer worms and sharp-fingered apparitions. He was almost disappointed when, in the early hours of the morning, he found himself yawning.

“Think we all better head to bed soon,” Sasha mumbled, her head resting lightly on Tim’s shoulder. “I’m knackered.”

Martin struggled to his feet. “I’ve got, um, toothpaste and floss if anyone needs it. I’m just going to go—yeah.”

“I’ll take some,” Jon volunteered, picking himself up off the blankets. “Please.”

They padded to Martin’s makeshift bedroom in companionable silence. “Thanks for all this,” Martin murmured as he collected his toiletries.

Jon rested his head against a bookcase. “What’re you thanking me for? Tim’s idea. And snacks.”

“Yeah, but you know. It’s a bit ridiculous. A sleepover in the archives. I just—I really appreciate you going along with it. And, and being a part of it. It really has made me feel better. It’s nice not to be alone in here.”

Limply, Jon shrugged one shoulder. “Mm. Me too. Long day.”

Martin let out a puff of laughter and headed for the closest bathroom. “Right, and we’re all a bit worn out. Come on and clean up then.”

They brushed their teeth at the same time, Jon scrubbing his gums with a finger and some paste. There was something comforting about the simple ritual of getting ready for bed with another person at his side. He hadn’t experienced it since university, when he and Georgie would shower in turns and change into pajamas before settling in to watch evening telly. He hadn’t thought he missed it, but catching Martin’s eye in the mirror and receiving a reflected minty smile tugged at something in his gut. He couldn’t help smiling back.

Jon wandered through the archives after Martin, struggling to keep his eyes open.

The other man packed his things away and made for the main room where they’d set up his bedding. He stopped just before the threshold and turned to Jon, forehead creased with worry. “Are you sure this is okay, Jon? I mean, if you wanted, I could make the cot up again and you could sleep there.”

If Jon had been any less exhausted he would have rolled his eyes. What was Martin worried about? That one of the assistants would kick him in the night and he’d have them all fired? It wasn’t as if proximity to other humans was actually painful to Jon. In fact, Martin had literally held his hand earlier that day, though it felt like a very long time ago. Jon knew he should probably try and say something to that effect, but it seemed like a lot of effort to form all those words. Instead he let himself lilt to the side. He knocked against Martin’s arm. For a moment, he let his head rest on the other man’s broad shoulder.

“S’okay,” he muttered before staggering towards the blanket pile.

“Okay,” Martin whispered behind him. His voice cracked slightly on the word. He must, Jon assumed, be quite tired too.

Tim and Sasha had already claimed their sections of the massive impromptu bed. Their arms were entwined between blankets, and Tim was lightly snoring. Martin shut off the light as Jon shuffled himself into a heap of cushion and comforter.

“Good night, Jon,” he murmured, settling himself on the edge of the downy island.

Jon snuffled into a pillow, feeling more relaxed than he had in weeks. “Mm. Night, Martin.” He was asleep before even the thought of nightmares could reach him.

* * *

Martin lay awake. It was ridiculous, he knew; the point of everyone staying later had been to make him feel safe in the archives. He should be trying to cram in however many hours of quality sleep he could manage before the institute came alive in the morning.

He just couldn’t resist the desire to catalogue every shift in Jon’s sleeping face. Awake, the smaller man was attractive, with his richly dark skin and high cheekbones, his flashing eyes and silver-streaked hair. Asleep, Martin was beginning to realize just how beautiful Jon really was—from the fine lines of his lashes to his delicately bowed lips.

 _It’s time to sleep,_ Martin told himself. _Not time to mentally compose poetry about Jon._

On the other hand, that was how Martin had taken to falling asleep most nights. He knew there was no real point to it. Jon was so untouchably distant. Well, he had been distant. Lately, Martin wasn’t exactly sure where he and Jon stood. His crush had always been so safe; an impossible crutch. Jon was never going to feel the same way, so Martin could just pine away for his gorgeous boss in peace, knowing that there was no reason to actually get his hopes up. Jon hadn’t even been nice to him!

When they finally got the tiniest bit closer, Martin had disappeared for thirteen days. That was one of the things that hurt most about being confined by Prentiss. After sharing a meal, Martin was starting to think that maybe he and Jon could come to some sort of understanding. Maybe they could even be friends! Then he was certain death would be upon him before he could get the chance. The fact that he’d even been able to give Jon the scarf he knitted for him was insanely lucky.

Martin wished he could be content with that. But then had come the care package, and Jon sleeping over at his bedside, the two of them investigating Calvin Tang’s case, even a heartfelt apology. It had been just over a month since Jon’s attitude towards Martin had started to thaw. In his more optimistic moment, Martin hoped that maybe they could be cordial towards each other at work. Instead he was practically sharing a bed with Jon for the second time since he’d moved out of his flat.

It was almost worse to be so close to Jon and still unable to cross the distance between them. A casual bump of shoulders sent Martin’s heart tearing out of his chest. When Jon had been icy and locked in his office, it was easy to build him up in fantasy and laugh off his own growing crush. Faced with tenderness, honesty, and casual touch, Martin was pretty sure the tightness in his chest was going to suffocate him. He couldn’t even brush his damn teeth without waxing poetic about the domesticity of sharing space with Jon.

He sighed. His crush on Jon was as inconvenient as it was inappropriate, but at least he didn’t feel alone. Being overwhelmed with affection was better than fighting through the workday feeling awkward and isolated.

Each of Jon’s light breaths ghosted across the blankets, rustling the sheets. Martin stretched his hand out towards the other man’s curled fist. He wasn’t going to try and touch Jon in his sleep—obviously that would be creepily obsessive—but he did rest his own hand beside Jon’s. He admired the size difference, Jon’s thin fingers curled into a ball beside Martin’s large palm. Their knuckles brushed and Martin sucked in a breath through his teeth.

Jon mumbled in his sleep. His hand uncurled and grasped for something in the darkness. Searching fingers found Martin’s hand. As Martin watched in horrified giddy joy, Jon grasped his hand and pulled it up to his face, nuzzling into Martin’s palm before slipping back into stillness. His soft breath ghosted across Martin’s knuckles. Tingling warmth spread from Martin’s fingers up into his wrist and arm.

In the dark room, Martin watched the lines in Jon’s face smoothe themselves away. He buried his face in the pillow and suppressed a scream. He knew he should gently pull his hand away and roll back over before Jon could wake up and feel uncomfortable. Somehow, mind fuzzed with the heady mess of emotions rolling over him, he fell asleep instead.

* * *

When Jon woke up, his first impulse was to huddle further down into his blankets and fall back asleep. He couldn’t remember a morning in recent months when he hadn’t woken tangled in his sweaty blankets and thanking his buzzing alarm for ending his misery. Miserable muscle aches and the vestiges of night terrors clouded his commute to work.

He lay there, swaddled in blankets and feeling remarkably well rested, as the events of the night came back to him. There would likely be hell to pay when the rest of the archival staff woke up—Tim wasn’t going to let mention of a college band go that easily—but in the early moments of the morning Jon was ready to be honest with himself. He had fun spending carefree time with his coworkers. They were good people, and it wasn’t going to ruin his professional demeanor to chat with them.

Before forcing himself out of bed, he turned to press his bleary eyes into the pillow. Something tugged on his hand. He shifted back onto his side and looked down at his own wrist. His fingers were wrapped loosely around… another hand. A hand attached to Martin, who was still asleep on the cushion beside him. Jon was fully awake in an instant.

Working with the speed and finesse of a player in a game of Operation, he disentangled their fingers and rolled himself out of the blanket pile. God, but that had been close. Fraternizing wasn’t going to ruin his reputation, but holding his assistants’ hands while they slept was beyond the bounds of decorum and respect. Sleeping next to Martin had been a terrible idea.

He pressed his head into the cold wall and took a deep breath, trying to figure out why his heart was racing so terribly. It was just strange. He felt guilty, of course. Though—well, it had been an accident. Would he have been so affected if he’d woken to find Tim’s hand in his?

In the quiet room, he focused in on what little he could hear to ground himself. His own breath whooshing gently in and out. The rustle of blankets as his friends shifted in their sleep. The wet squelching of pipes behind the wall. The—squelching?

Jon wasn’t much of a plumber, but he was pretty sure pipes were not supposed to make the noise he could hear with his ear pressed up against the wall and the building silent around him. Something wet—many wet things, in fact—were squirming in the empty space behind the wall.

That was impossible. Or at least improbable. Jon was probably just unused to the sound of water or sewage moving through pipes. He was probably still exhausted from weeks of restlessness and sleep-addled from going to bed so late and waking up so recently.

Martin snuffled and turned over in his sleep. Looking at him, Jon remembered what he’d decided the night before. It was his responsibility to ensure the safety of his staff.

He shook Sasha awake first. She began to tell him off, muttering and rubbing at her eyes, but he shushed her with frantic hands flapping. “There’s something in the walls,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m calling the ECDC. We need to get out of here _now_.”

Her sleep-crusted eyes flew wide open. “I’ll grab Tim,” she whispered back. “Get Martin and have him grab his things. Grab whatever you’re working on, too. We need to move.” She grabbed Tim by the shoulder and began to shake him, cupping a hand over his mouth to muffle his protests.

Jon followed her lead and shook Martin awake.

The other man blinked up at him through his lashes, a languid smile spreading across his face. “Morning, Jon.”

He swallowed. “Good morning, Martin. We’ve got a bit of an emergency. Please stay quiet.”At the first mention of worms, Martin was out of bed and hurrying to collect his things. Sasha and Tim were already busy stuffing files and tapes into a carboard box and collecting their computers. As Jon gathered his things from his office, he tried to tamp down the fear and disgust building inside him. He couldn’t panic. He had an example to set for his assistants and a duty to get them out of the archives safely.

He ushered Tim and Sasha out the door and waited for Martin to finish packing his things. When the man started trying to collect library cushions from the floor, Jon grabbed his arm. “Leave it, Martin,” he hissed. “We need to go.”

“R-right, right, I, I’m sorry, I just thought—I’m just—”

Jon twisted his voice into something gentler. “Martin. It’s going to be okay. We just need to leave right now so you can be safe, all right? I’m with you. Let’s get going.”

“I’m scared, Jon.” Their eyes met. Martin’s pupils were dilated, and his skin had gone pale. He looked moments from a breakdown.

Jon wrapped his arm around Martin’s and gave an insistent tug. “Me too. Come on. I’m getting you out of here, Martin. You’re not alone this time.”

Martin followed him without protest, clutching his bag to his chest.

The four of them reconvened outside the institute proper, which still had yet to open its doors. Jon called the ECDC in his pajamas, breathing clouds of steam into the frigid morning air, explaining their situation through chattering teeth. While they waited for the emergency services to arrive, he dug through his bag and pulled out the scarf Martin knitted for him the last time worms had threatened his life. He wound it around his neck and relaxed into its soft embrace.

His assistants stood clustered together around him, Tim wrapped up in Sasha’s arms. Martin kept his head down. Jon noticed with a pang that Martin’s hands were shaking, fingers twisting together in a writhing mass of nerves.

He reached up to put a firm hand on the taller man’s shoulder. “They’ll be here soon,” he declared to the group. “We’re all unharmed. That’s what matters.”

Tim opened his arms wide. “Come on, kids. Archives group hug.”

Jon let him fall into the offered embrace. Martin’s side was warm and solid against his. One of Tim’s hands rested on the small of his back. Across the circle, Sasha smiled at him, hooking her arms around Tim and Martin’s necks.

It was nice to be there with them, Jon decided. Nice to have friends and to feel them close to him. He wrapped one arm around Martin’s waist and rested the other on the elbow Tim had slung across his shoulder. They stood like that for a few warm minutes before breaking apart. Jon could hear sirens wailing blocks away.

“Figured you’d be in early.”

He spun around. A few yards away stood Yukti Mangal, looking disheveled, wrapped up in a thick coat and scarf.

She gave him a thin smile. “I’ve got another statement to make.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive thanks to all those who keep reading and commenting~ you help make this fic successful, which keeps me writing!! Special thanks to commenters Lemongrass13 for their sleepover enthusiasm, Luxa-Kvothe for their extremely sweet message, awildaceappeared for the well-wishes, Pigeonfeatherquill for their frequent feedback, Ixempt for their *wonderfully* long comments, and shhdontlook <3<3<3
> 
> This fic will be undergoing some minor editing just before Chapter 10 is posted next Thursday, so look out for shifts in tags and a few possible ret-cons. Lmk in the comments if you have any suggestions, especially with regards to tagging CWs.


	10. Disentanglement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the sirens close in, Jon takes another statement. Sasha clears her name. Martin is taken in.
> 
> **SPOILER ALERT**
> 
> Summary for those avoiding content warnings: Yukti describes the appearance of spiders around Maribel's apartment whenever she texts Calvin's number, along with a series of strange nightmares in which she is attacked by spiders and transformed into a spider. Finally, she describes a dream taking place at Calvin's flat, in which he paints and asks her to stay with him. The spider nest is still in the corner. When she refuses, he gives her matches and asks that she burn everything. Upon waking, Maribel's apartment window is besieged by spiders, which eventually run away. 
> 
> Jordan Kennedy describes to the institute staff the worms in the walls, tunnels below the institute, and the discovery of Gertrude Robinson's body.
> 
> **END SPOILERS**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Partial Content Warning for the chapter!!!
> 
> The section to skip is from "'I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but later that afternoon I mentioned the spider to Maribel.'" to “'Elias Bouchard has asked that we try and keep reports relatively quiet, but I figured you’d want to know'”. See the summary for an abridged version of events.
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS (SPOILER ALERT):
> 
> *spiders  
> *nightmares  
> *mild body horror  
> *animal death  
> *canon-typical worms
> 
> END CONTENT WARNINGS

Jon huddled on the stairs next to Yukti. Though the sirens had faded, they were surrounded by the bustle and hum of ECDC employees in containment suits, mounting the stairs in teams and heaving vats of sprayable chemical pesticide.

Institute employees arriving for work had been corralled off to one side of the road, just beyond the blockade. Rosie from reception gave Jon a tentative wave when his tired eyes landed on her. He tried to muster a smile. Nothing happened, so he returned her wave instead.

A man in something resembling a hazmat suit paused on the stairs and gestured to them. “Hey, you all should clear out of the area in the next half hour or so. They’ve got, uh, something contained in there. We’re preparing to transport—it. You might not want to stick around. Tell your friends they should prepare to leave after decontamination.”

Tim, Sasha, and Martin were still being poked and prodded by ECDC employees in protective suits. Jon had been interviewed, searched and sprayed down first. Yukti had only needed a brief interview and inspection, since she never entered the building.

The three assistants, like Jon, were still wearing what they’d gone to bed in. Tim was shivering in his boxers and a thin shirt under Sasha’s spare cardigan. Without the cardigan, Sasha wore nothing but leggings and an oversized jumper. As the only one of them in real pajamas, Martin looked suitably warm, but he also looked minutes from a complete breakdown. All of his possessions rescued from the archives had been isolated for decontamination and quarantine.

Jon was seized by the terrible realization that Martin would have to return to his flat. The archives were no longer safe. In fact, they had apparently never been safe. With a dry swallow, Jon contemplated the idea that he had literally offered Martin a bed in a nest of worms. He promptly decided that he wasn’t ready to confront that particular realization so early in the morning.

“I should… I’ll go let them know,” he mumbled, shuddering to his feet.

Yukti looked up at him. “Then you’ll take my statement, right? I wasn’t kidding. I think you’ve got to hear this.”

“But—we just—yes. Yes, fine. All right. Come with me, then.”

Jon staggered down the icy stone stairs, supremely conscious of the fact that he had neglected to put his shoes back on after his full-body inspection. The assistants snapped to attention as he approached. For Sasha, that meant actually standing up straighter and clasping her hands behind her back. For Tim, it meant shooting Jon a loose pair of finger guns, and for Martin it meant making no sound or movement whatsoever and continuing to stare off into space.

“One of the workers said we should expect to be leaving soon. They’re… going to take Prentiss out of the building.”

Tim gaped. “They’re taking _what_? Are you telling me Jane fucking _Prentiss_ was hiding in the walls? Please tell me that was one of your terrible impressions of a human making a joke.”

“As always, Tim, your wit astounds me. Yes. She was in the building. Elias informed me when he arrived. One of the workers just let me know that they’ll be removing something from the building within the half hour.”

Yukti rested an elbow on his shoulder. He tensed. The pressure of her hand felt like swarming and itching, though none of the gelatinous worms squirming through the walls of the institute had actually come close to him.

“We’ll be over behind the barricade,” she stated. “I need to have a chat with your boss.”

She dragged him away by the elbow, not letting go until the two of them were huddled up against the side of an official van. “You’ve got a recorder on you, right?”

Wearily, Jon pulled a tape recorder from his bag. “Yes. Let’s get this over with. Statement of Yukti Mangal, concerning, I would assume, further developments in the case of Calvin Tang.”

Yukti rubbed her hand together and blew through her teeth, huddling in closer as if to block out some of the cold. “I think he’s trying to talk to me. Calvin, I mean. It’s been a while since I heard anything from him. After I made my statement, I even tried replying to his last text. I’ve been sending him messages every few days since then.

“At a certain point, I sort of gave up on expecting a response. It was more a way for me to talk to him. I mean—we were friends. I don’t have many close friends in this city. When Maribel’s not around, I spend a lot of time on my own. But I was in her apartment when I saw the first spider.

“I’d just rattled off another hopeless text to Calvin. I know it doesn’t make any sense, trying to get in touch with him now. Not after—well, not after what Maribel heard and saw. But sometimes it’s cathartic to check in with him, even though I know he won’t respond.

“Maribel called me from the other room, so I went to set my phone down on the counter. As it moved closer to the countertop, I spotted something dark against the white plastic. I raised the phone back up. Underneath it, just where I’d been about to drop my phone down, was a cupboard spider sitting perfectly still. I had to cover my mouth to stifle a scream.

“Like I told you, I’ve never been scared of spiders. As much as this whole thing with Calvin has really creeped me out, that hasn’t changed. I was just freaked out that I had almost squashed the spider without even noticing it was there. I got a glass and some cardstock and put the poor thing out on the fire escape. Maribel keeps some plants out there, where the sun can hit them, so I figured it would be a nice spot.

“I wouldn’t have thought anything of it, but later that afternoon I mentioned the spider to Maribel. It got me thinking about Calvin again. I texted him that—just something stupid, I don’t know. _Saw a spider today and thought of you, miss you buddy!_ It was sort of like a little joke, just for me. I laughed as I typed it. The moment I hit send, a house spider dropped from the ceiling above me directly onto the bare skin of my arm.

“I swear to god, I’ve really never been scared of spiders. But you have to understand—feeling them on you, crawling on you, the hairs on their reaching legs brushing against your skin, the tapping of eight thin legs moving in practiced unison—it’s just so goddamn unsettling.”

Jon covered his face with his hands. Nodding for Yukti to continue, he took a shuddering breath, willing the cold to numb his limbs so he wouldn’t feel every breath of the wind against his arms.

“Anyway, I shook the spider off to the ground. It had already hooked a thread of silk to me. I had to wave my arms over each other, scraping at the skin to brush the string away, watching as the spider twisted and writhed and tried to get back up onto my arm.

“I was pretty shaken, so I asked Maribel if she could get it outside—I was still over at her apartment. We started looking around the carpet. Neither of us could find it. I think she could tell I was a bit peaky, because she offered for me to stay over. I agreed, since Maribel cooks a fantastic birria, and she had a pot stewing already. To be honest, the idea of heading back to my own flat alone also made me a bit nervous.

“The evening was so completely nice and normal that I forgot all about my weird spider run-ins. We ate birria, we watched old episodes of Midsomer Murders, we talked about forming our own crime-solving crack team. I went to sleep on the couch. That night, I had the most terrible nightmares. I usually don’t remember my dreams at all, but these are crystal clear.

“At first I was at the beach on holiday. Waves lapped at the white sand, stones and shells shifted under my bare feet, and umbrellas speckled the shore. It was a beautiful sunny day. I was walking alone, but I didn’t mind it. I picked up shells as I walked. Some I slid into my pockets, the rest I tossed back to the sea.

“After a few minutes of wandering, I found a whole abalone shell, glistening with mother-of-pearl. I’ve never seen one of those at a beach before. I picked it up. Underneath was the crushed body of some sort of sea creature. It was large, about the size of my palm, and black. It shone with seawater. A thin coat of fur was matted with sand. I poked it with a razor clam shell. It didn’t move, but a wave swept high up the beach, and I had to step away so that my trousers wouldn’t be soaked.

“The tip of a wave lapped at my leg. I felt something… scratching in the water. I jumped further up the beach. Another creature rose from the foam, and I realized it was a massive spider. I scrambled back up to dry sand, but it followed after me, huge legs scuttling like a coconut crab. More followed. They sprouted from the water like wicked seaweed, floating to the surface and chittering in my direction.

“I ran. Every umbrella I passed fell away as the metal supporting the canopy revealed itself to be another massive spider. Their legs crumpled the colorful fabric as they twisted and snapped themselves free. Small arachnids burrowed up out of the sand, jets of web sticking to my bare ankles, hundreds of tiny bulging thoraxes squishing underneath my feet.

“Maribel woke me up, then. She said I was crying in my sleep. It was about two in the morning. I didn’t want to go back to bed. She said she’d wait up with me, so we put on another episode and brought some extra blankets over to the couch. I fell back asleep within the hour.

“The second dream was a forest. I remembered the last dream—though to me, in that moment, it was like remembering a real memory—and I knew there were spiders hidden up in every tree. I darted around trunks, watching the forest floor for signs of movement and sneaking glances up into every canopy. My whole body was braced for the sensation of spiders crawling up and down my back, lodging in my hair, skittering across my neck.

“They never appeared. I just kept running, getting more and more tired, absolutely lost and almost blind with terror. Eventually I fell. Nothing crawled up from the leaves to meet me. But I crawled, desperate to move out of the choking dark of the forest. I moved with my belly pressed up against the ground. Wind whispered through the leaves and it sounded like clicking legs. 

“Finally, the forest broke. I came upon a river. There was a deer drinking by the side of the stream. Just a deer, with four legs and soft brown fur. I crawled towards the water. The deer turned his head and spotted me. He was beautiful, with wide, expressive eyes and the nubs of antlers just beginning to appear. He turned to canter away.

“One of his legs crashed through the leafy carpet beneath us. He thrashed, trapped in a mass of something sticky that had been hidden beneath the leaves. I wanted to help him.

“Instead, I pounced on him, long black limbs pinning him to the earth, my numbing venom injected into his throat. I wrapped him with the sticky white threads, binding him like a wrapped gift. The forest was quiet.

“Maribel got up to turn the television off, and I woke up in tears again. She promised to stay up and watch over me. She told me I could just make another statement in the morning, and then I’d feel better. Also, she made a good point about how if I didn’t sleep I’d just be exhausted the next day and freak myself out even worse. So I went back to sleep. As I lay down, I thought it would take me a long time to rest again. I even hoped that maybe I wouldn’t be able to sleep. Maybe I could just wait up with Maribel.

“The moment I closed my eyes I was standing in Calvin’s apartment. It was clean and light, with open windows. Two mugs of tea sat on the counter. I was already holding a plate of biscuits. I picked up the mug I knew was Calvin’s and headed for his craft room. The door stood open.

“Inside, he was painting something. There was a cloth over his loom. His yarn and embroidery floss had been shoved back into their boxes. Needles and hoops and aida fabric were slotted neatly away. Instead, drafting pencils and acrylics cluttered his desk. He smiled up at me.

“ _Thanks, Yukti,_ he said, _I always feel more inspired when you’re around._ I looked at his painting. It was a woman in a draped toga. Long hair cascaded down her back. In her hands, she held a pair of scissors. I asked him who it was.

“He shook his head. _She won the contest, Yukti. Her fabric had no flaw. The gods are fickle._

“I asked him what the hell he was on about, and he laughed. He asked if he could paint me instead. I told him I missed him, and he looked at me, and he was crying. He said he missed me too, and he asked if I would stay with him. I looked toward the window.

“There, in the corner of the room, was the same ball of white thread he first called me over to his apartment to check out. _I think you should call an exterminator_ , I told him. He couldn’t stop crying. I said that if he couldn’t deal with it, I was going to have to leave. I didn’t want to say that—it wasn’t what I meant, you know? It’s just what came out of my mouth in the dream.

“He sniffed and said it was too late. Then he handed me a little book of matches. I took them, and he asked me to burn it all on my way out if I was going to leave. He said I could start with the nest, if I wanted, but I should get it all. I told him he could light his own matches.

“Then it was morning and Maribel shook me awake. I wasn’t going to make a statement at all. I mean, it was weird, but I know you guys don’t really do dreams. I figured I was just getting too hung up on all this stuff with Calvin. After breakfast, I decided I would send him one last text, then delete his number. I knew it couldn’t be healthy to spend so much time thinking about him. Especially if I was giving myself creepy nightmares over it.

“I’ve, uh, got the text here, actually.” She fumbled through her bag and pulled out a cellphone, the model a few years out of date and the screen webbed with cracks.

“I just said: _Hey, Cal. It’s been a while. This is the last you’ll hear from me, but I wanted you to know I miss you. I hope you’re okay, wherever you are, and that it’s a place you want to be in. I—_ ” Yukti cleared her throat, hunching in closer to the screen. “ _I would have stayed if you asked me to. Bye, Cal._ ”

Jon wanted to tune out what Yukti was saying, but he couldn’t. His attention was fixed entirely on her. He felt the sensations of her dreams, the fear that still coursed through her, the ache she felt for someone she had known so little of. He just watched as she continued her story.

“And I figured that would be it. So I went to the window and looked out over the street. I don’t really know why, to be honest. Something about how, since he lived right above Maribel, Calvin would’ve had the same view. And I lifted the phone to block his number.

“A single spider dropped from the top of the frame. It hung suspended in the open air. It was a little thing, and usually I wouldn’t have minded, but you know—things have been weird. So I went to blow it away. As I moved my face closer, another spider joined it. It dropped down on its own thread. The two of them dangled side by side.

“I pulled back just in time. A third spider slipped down, suspended from the wall above the window, and a fourth. I screamed for Maribel and slammed the window shut. They kept coming, plastering themselves to the glass outside. She came running in from the bedroom. It was like a hailstorm of little dark bodies throwing themselves against the glass. An unstoppable army of creeping legs that tapped against the glass, begging us to let them in. They blocked out the sunlight and left us with nothing but the harsh glare of the kitchen bulb. My shadow was stark against the wall. I looked at it, and for a second—just a second— I thought it had a few too many arms.

“We huddled together on the floor of her kitchen. I didn’t know what to do. In that moment, to be honest, I thought they were coming to kill us. Just like I had to the deer in my dream.

“After a few minutes, the spiders just cleared away. Most of them scuttled off over the rest of the building. A few dropped down onto our fire escape. We waited in her apartment a very long time before opening any doors, and while we waited… I got a response.” She held the phone out to Jon. He took it, fingers aching from the cold. “Maribel is in my apartment sleeping with some bug spray. I didn’t want to leave her, but I thought I should get this right to you.”

He looked down at the cracked screen. There, the very first text Yukti had received from Calvin since the one she showed Jon when she made her first statement, was an address.

“I’m not going,” she added. “Obviously. I miss him, but I’m not an idiot. I figured maybe you’d have the resources to investigate. Or maybe you should just do what you did here. Call in the professionals. I—I couldn’t be the one to make that call. But I wanted to bring this to you. You can, ah, text it to yourself. Or write it down, if you like.”

“Right.” Jon copied the address and sent it to his own number. His phone buzzed in his bag. “Statement ends. We’ll, uh—we’ll do what follow-up we can. One of my assistants will contact you about our findings at Mr. Blanken’s residence yesterday.”

She shook her head. “Thanks, but the tall one already called me. I don’t need to hear any more.”

Jon looked over at Martin, who was wrapping up his interview before decontamination. “Right. Okay. Well then, uh, thank you, Ms. Mangal. And… I’m sorry.”

Yukti stretched her hand out to shake his. “Nothing you could’ve done, Sims. Thanks for letting me say my piece.” She trekked off into the crowd of employees, exchanging a quick hug with Rosie before disappearing into the crowd.

Jon, Tim, Sasha, and Martin regrouped as each of them in turn was interviewed and inspected and sprayed and debriefed and put off to one side to wait. Finally, just as Tim was released, the same employee who had spoken to Jon on the stairs approached their group.

“Hi all, Jordan Kennedy,” he introduced himself, waving one gloved hand. “ECDC exterminator. They, uh, asked me to tell you about some of our findings. You’re Jonathan Sims, right? The current head archivist?”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s me.”

“Right, well. My superiors figured you ought to hear about this. Are the rest okay?”

After a moment of confusion, Jon glanced around at the others. “Ah, yes. Of course. These are my assistants. Please go ahead, Mr. Kennedy.”

As the four of them listened in growing horror, Jordan described the scourge of worms swarming through the institute’s walls. He introduced them to a series of dark tunnels crawling with worms. Finally, he revealed a chamber with an old woman’s shriveling corpse.

“Elias Bouchard has asked that we try and keep reports relatively quiet, but I figured you’d want to know,” he concluded. “We’ll be passing that business off to the police. Now would be a good time for you all to get going.”

When Jon stayed silent, the gears in his head spinning uselessly, Sasha stepped forward. “Thank you for letting us know, Jordan. We appreciate your efforts here.”

With a nod and another wave, Jordan headed back up the steps into the institute.

Their little group floated past the barricade and down the street, receiving scattered interest from the crowd of other employees, and collected themselves on the corner.

Jon didn’t speak. Tim tapped his shoulder. “Hey, boss man, you okay in there?” When he flinched back, Tim’s eyes crinkled in concern. “I’m serious. Jon, are you okay?”

Sasha and Martin both turned worried eyes on him too. He wilted under their gazes. “Yes. Fine, Tim. I’m fine.”

“You’re clearly not,” Sasha retorted. “It’s Gertrude, isn’t it? Talk to us. We’re scared too, but we have to work together on this.”

Martin stepped in slightly. He didn’t try to touch Jon, but he did fill the space beside him. “Come on, Jon. Let’s just talk.”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Jon took a shaky breath in. “Look—Gertrude was murdered. By someone at the institute. Someone who knew about the tunnels. Someone who knew her well enough to get into her office. And… and I…”

“What,” Tim interrupted, “you can’t seriously think one of _us_ did it?”

Jon threw his arms into the air. “I don’t know what I think, Tim! My predecessor was murdered! Literally killed in cold blood! The institute was under siege by worms, yesterday I thought I was going to drown in spiders, and Gertrude Robinson was shot in the chest with a gun by a murderer. It could’ve been you! It could’ve been anybody!”

Sasha stepped in and took his hands in hers. She ignored his sounds of protest. “Jon, look at me. None of us had any reason to kill Gertrude. Before she disappeared none of us even worked in the archives. Martin was happy working in the library, and Elias was the one who transferred him here _after_ Gertrude left. He didn’t even know her. Also, he’s Martin. Tim’s an idiot, but he’s not a murderous idiot, and he had no reason to want anything to change in the archives. He worked with me in research after I left artifact storage. You were the one who asked for him to be transferred; it’s not like he was planning on it.”

“You know, Sash, of all of us you’re the one with the best motive,” Tim mused, “since I’m pretty sure Gertrude wanted you to be the next Head Archivist. Not that I think you killed her. I mean, who would want to run this place? No offense, boss, but this is the archives. You know—where the worms hunt you on the job?”

Sasha snorted. “Please. If I was going to kill a coworker, I wouldn’t do it at work with a noisy weapon _or_ leave their desk covered in blood _or_ dispose of the body by leaving it in the basement for someone to find later. Absolute amateur hour. Anyway, Jon, what matters is that we all need to be able to trust each other. I mean, you’re the one who took over her job. We have every reason to suspect that _you_ killed Gertrude. But we don’t. I know you, and I’m choosing to trust you.”

Tim shrugged. “I wouldn’t say I’m _convinced_ you didn’t kill her, but I also think she could’ve kicked your ass. Probably pulled out a pair of katanas and sliced you to shreds or something. Anyway, we’re friends, so if you did kill her I’m forced to assume she deserved it.”

Jon pressed his lips together. He looked from Tim’s shaken grin to Sasha’s understanding eyes. Finally, he looked to Martin, who had fixed Jon with a watery, pleading stare. Jon sighed. “You’re right. All of you. I’m sorry, this is just—I’ve been quite worried about her disappearance. I assumed it was related her position. Which, of course, is now my position. The idea that it was someone at the institute who killed her…”

“We get it.” Tim clapped a hand to his shoulder. “But don’t you worry, boss man. The Assistant Gang is on the case. Archiving Incorporated.”

Jon forced a thin smile. “Fantastic. One more thing to worry about.”

* * *

Martin kept his eyes locked on the pavement. He had thought, when Prentiss finally released him from his flat, that most of the worst days of his life were probably well behind him. Exciting things simply didn’t happen to him very often, and he hadn’t expected it could get much worse than being barricaded in his home against a siege of worms.

Apparently, he’d been—as per usual—terribly and stupidly wrong. First worms. Then spiders. Then worms again. Finally, the finishing bow of the sudden return of all of Jon’s anger and mistrust. Well, knowing Martin’s new luck, probably not the finishing stroke at all. He could only imagine what fresh horror might come next.

“Okay!” Tim exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “This has been a right mess. Just to check in: we’re all fine, right? No worms? No murderous inclinations? Jon, your trust in your assistants is restored?”

Jon nodded, arms clamped tight around his own torso, skin ashen. “My apologies for the outburst.”

“Great! Then I am going home. And I will _not_ be leaving, _especially_ not to come back to work, until sometime next week at the earliest. All agreed?”

Sasha nodded solemnly. “If I ever see this place again it will be too soon. Besides, we should really leave before they try and move Prentiss. I really don’t want to be around to see that. On the bright side, Martin, she definitely won’t be haunting your flat.”

He nodded. It was true that Prentiss herself, and apparently most of her worms, weren’t a present danger anymore. Maybe the next time something attacked his flat it would be spiders instead.

“I’m off, then,” Tim chirped, giving each of them a friendly slug to the shoulder in turn. “You all take care. Also, take a fire extinguisher home with you. Just in case. Ciao!” He headed off down the street, Sasha’s arm linked with his.

Martin was dimly aware of the thought that, as far as he knew, they lived in opposite directions. He supposed it didn’t matter. Hefting his rucksack full of the few possessions they’d returned to him after decontamination, he looked down at Jon.

“Well, uh. Be seeing you, then?”

Jon looked up at him, blinking in surprise. “Oh, Martin. Uh… yes.” He looked around, forehead furrowing as he apparently registered that Tim and Sasha were gone. “Where are you going?”

“I think I’m going home? We all are.”

“Back to your flat?” Jon asked, eyebrows drawing up into a worried crease.

Martin swallowed. “Uh, yeah. I guess. Probably safer than the institute was, if you think about it.”

Jon stared pensively into the middle distance. He looked cold and achingly frail. Martin resisted the urge to wrap him up in a cozy jumper and take him somewhere warm. After all, the only place Martin could possibly take him was his own flat, empty of food and bedding and probably coated in a layer of dust. Dust and cobwebs.

“You should probably be getting home too,” he murmured. Jon didn’t respond. “Right, then I’ll—I’ll just be going, I guess.”

“You could come with me,” Jon blurted, eyes suddenly locking on Martin’s.

“I—what? Come where?”

Jon crossed his arms, looking petulant. “Back to my flat. It is warm, lived-in, and completely worm-free. Also, you will probably feel safer with someone else around.”

Martin was dead. Martin had died in his flat, or the institute, and was a ghost. He was having a fever dream in his last few moments of consciousness before passing on to the great beyond. “Oh. Right. Is—would—do you—are you—uh?”

“Obviously, it is your decision. But I have the space. It would be no trouble to host you for a night or two in order to give you time to recover. Sasha and Tim are clearly doing the same, and Ms. Mangal reported she has been staying with Ms. Santos in the wake of their own experience. There is, as they say, strength in numbers.”

“Right,” Martin squeaked, “totally.”

Jon raised one perfect, beautiful eyebrow. “So?”

“Yes. Thanks, Jon. I’d love to.”

Dead or not, Martin was absolutely not going to let his fever dream of an opportunity go to waste.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks as always to those reading, commenting, and leaving kudos!! Thanks for sticking with this fic <3 I promise next chapter you'll be rewarded with all kinds of fluff-- but this chapter it's Spiders As Usual. Special thanks to Pigeonfeatherquill for their long comments, distress_and_disaRAE for powering through the spiders, and Luxa_Kvothe for their super sweet feedback!! Also if I've given you a shout-out before and you're still commenting PLEASE know that I adore you so much and I am writing for you :) I just can't fit all your beautiful names in these notes <3 <3 <3


	11. Back To The Nest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon still isn't quite used to visitors. Martin still isn't quite used to Jon's kindness. They're figuring it out.

Martin wanted to remember the route to Jon’s home, but the persistent fog of conflicting emotions that had settled over his mind was making that impossible. His hands were still shaking slightly with the residual terror of waking up to Jon’s hushed voice murmuring about worms in the walls. Speaking with the ECDC representatives had conjured up the worst of his social anxiety. Finally, with a tidal wave of shock that had blasted all other thoughts from his head and all other feelings from the pit of his stomach, there was Jon’s invitation.

He was following Jon back to his flat. Where Jon was going to let him stay for a while. Not because they were being hunted down by a malevolent worm entity, just because Jon guessed that Martin might not want to be alone in his own musty flat in the wake of their shared traumatic experiences.

If Martin hadn’t been so close to breaking down into muffled sobs, he would probably have screamed. As it was he had to force himself to maintain a respectable distance between himself and Jon. The pavement squares between them seemed to stretch on for an eternity. Martin tried to keep himself from picturing the two of them hand in hand, or arm in arm, or with his arm sloped over Jon’s shoulders and Jon’s wrapped around his waist, heading back to _their_ apartment. He failed.

In fact, Martin couldn’t help feeling that Jon was responding to his unintentional closeness. Usually, while Martin was drawn into Jon’s space like the split half of a magnet, Jon kept enough distance between himself and others that two outstretched arms and an important file could comfortably fit between their bodies. On that morning he didn’t seem to mind when Martin’s should accidentally bumped his. He didn’t flinch away when their swinging arms brushed and he said nothing when Martin almost crashed into him at the steps to Jon’s building.

 _It’s just for a night or two,_ Martin reminded himself as Jon ushered him into the lift. _Just to give you a chance to get over this. He’s just being nice. Just until you feel better._

All the cautious reminders in the world couldn’t keep Martin from nearly collapsing when Jon opened the door to his flat. It was so _Jon_ in ways Martin would never have expected. Some of the furniture was prim and utilitarian, dark wood with sharp corners and brown leather accents, but a few pieces could have been pulled right from Martin’s grandmother’s favorite church rummage sale. The walls were lined with shelves of books and a few half-ajar file cabinets. There were also rows upon rows of CDs, vinyl, and cassettes. Martin couldn’t help wondering if any of them were Jon’s band from uni.

A plush armchair had been pushed up against the window, on which sat a few hardy succulents and some surprisingly healthy houseplants. On closer inspection, Martin realized the houseplants were fake. He was still impressed that Jon had managed to keep the apparently real succulents alive. The flat was disorganized enough to feel lived-in, though the chill and the dust made it pretty clear that the archives were a very close second home to Jon.

Jon had left to rummage through a linen closet somewhere, and he returned with arms full of sheets, blankets, and a fluffy comforter. “The couch pulls out,” he grunted from beneath the pile. “Would you help me set it up?”

Martin hastily tugged out the pullout mattress and Jon deposited his cargo.

“Arrange that however you like. I’m going to make some breakfast before I collapse.”

After stifling a snort of laughter, Martin got to work assembling his bed. It was reassuringly familiar. He’d made plenty of beds before. Sure, none of them had been _in Jon’s_ flat, but the process was much the same. He stretched the fitted sheet, layered it with a few bedsheets, smoothed a blanket over top, and coated the whole affair in the comforter. Once Jon left the room, he stopped to press his face into the sheet and let out a very muffled shout. He lay a couple pillows at the head of the bed. All of the usual steps.

Surprisingly delicious smells were wafting from Jon’s small kitchen. Martin moved to hover at the doorway, eyes searching for some way to be helpful. Jon had several pans and a kettle going all at once. His hands flitted between handles and spatulas and spice jars with practiced ease. He spotted Martin in the doorway and for a moment looked as if he might jump. With a deep breath, he managed to work up a wobbly smile.

“Ah, Martin. Sorry. I appear to have forgotten you were in the living room. I am—not used to having guests here, as of late.”

Martin swallowed. “Right, yeah, no worries. Sorry to surprise you. I, uh—I really appreciate it. You letting me stay over.”

Jon shrugged. “Yes, well. I wasn’t exactly keen on spending the night alone here myself. I suppose you’re doing me something of a favor as well.”

“Is there anything I can help with in here?”

“I suppose I ought to leave tea to the expert. Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink.”

He nodded and squeezed past Jon to collect two mugs, careful not to brush into the smaller man while he worked. He took down a chipped light blue mug and one in charcoal gray with signs of wear on the handle. Carefully, he reached around Jon to recover the kettle. The selection of flavors in Jon’s closet was limited, but Martin thought they could probably both do with a bracing cup of PG Tips anyway. As an afterthought, he over-sugared Jon’s a bit.

By the time Martin finished stirring in the last drop of milk, Jon had already begun to serve up two plates from his army of pans. Spiced potatoes, fried eggs, toast, and some blistered tomatoes jostled for space. He set the plates down on an expanse of counter and pulled two stools out from beneath it.

“You can clear any papers aside,” he suggested through his first mouthful of buttered toast, “they’re probably no longer relevant to ongoing investigations.”

“Got it.” Martin was very careful not to touch a single one of the loose papers, but he dug into his breakfast with gusto. “You know, you’re actually a really good cook.”

Jon smirked into his tea. “Try not to sound so surprised.”

“O-oh, sorry! It’s just—” Martin noted his smile and let out a noise between a sigh and a laugh. “Thanks for breakfast, Jon.” There was something so satisfying about saying those words. He and Jon were sitting in the kitchen together, shoulder to shoulder, eating a breakfast Jon had just cooked for them from scratch and tea Martin made just the way he knew Jon liked it. They were joking over breakfast. Martin was going to spend the night in Jon’s cluttered flat. That was if he could make it through breakfast without his heart bursting.

“Don’t mention it.” Jon shifted in his seat. “Though, actually, there are a few things we probably should mention. Is now a good time to discuss something?”

His last bite of potato seemed got caught somewhere between his throat and intestines. He swallowed a few times and took a swig of tea. “Uh, you—yeah? Of course.”

“Right. A lot has happened lately, Martin. Things have changed. We’ve been through a lot. And, firstly, I want to apologize for most of it. The danger you’ve experienced these past few months is obviously far exceeding any reasonable expectation for the job. And I… I wish that you hadn’t experienced those things. But it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that this is what life in the archives will look like in the future.”

Martin nodded solemnly. “Like I’ve been saying, Jon, I appreciate the thought. But nothing that’s happened has been your fault, and I know the rest of the archives staff has my back. I’m not—well, uh, I’m definitely worried. And afraid. But I think we can get through whatever comes next, you know?”

“I certainly hope so. And I appreciate your efforts as well. I do think there are ways I could have been more proactive in keeping my staff out of danger, but I recognize that dwelling on past missteps will not actually make you safer. I just wanted to acknowledge that before I get to my point.”

“Okay. Uh, right. Cool.” Martin sat up a bit straighter in his chair.

“I have something to ask you. A request. I recognize that it may seem somewhat untimely, especially considering what occurred this morning, but recent events are part of what is driving me to ask. I want you to know that I will understand if you decline and will absolutely not hold it against you. Not in my capacity as an employer or a coworker. Or, uh, even as a friend.”

Though Martin was practically hovering on the edge of his seat with anticipation, that addition sent a warm current running through him. Jon saw him as a friend. Not just a friendly coworker or an employee worthy of protecting, though both of those titles were quite nice in their own rights. A friend.

He realized that Jon had fallen silent waiting on his response. “Oh, totally. Yeah. Of course. I mean, I’ll let you know. What is it?”

“I, uh—” Jon swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing, and stared down at his plate. “Well. I suppose I’d better just say it and get it over with. Martin, will you—”

Martin’s phone started ringing. He dug it out of his pocket with the desperation of a raccoon pawing through a full trash-bag and went right for the end call button.

“Oh, who’s that?” Jon asked, and Martin took a moment to actually check the screen.

He tutted. “Sasha. One second, okay?” Silently cursing her timing, he pressed the phone to his ear. “Hey, Sasha, everything okay?”

“Martin!” came Tim’s voice from the other end. “Hey, Sash realized you might not be having the _best_ time at home right now, and my excellent plan to give you and Jon some alone time to comfort each other probably didn’t pan out, so she said I could invite you over. We’re making pizza. We can invite Jon too if you like, but he probably won’t respond. I’ve asked him to a _lot_ of office parties.”

Martin pointed at his phone and mouthed Tim’s name. Jon rolled his eyes and focused on his breakfast.

“Thanks, Tim,” Martin replied, using one finger to dial the volume down on his phone, “but I’m actually over at Jon’s right now recovering from the whole worm attack thing.” Tim’s shrieks of glee were hopefully not audible to Jon. Just in case, Martin leaned a bit farther away. “We’re having something to eat, so I’ve got to sign off. Give my love to Sasha.”

Jon hummed something through a mouthful of egg.

“And Jon says hello! Talk to you later, Tim.” Martin slid the phone back into his pocket as Jon pushed aside his empty plate. “Right, so, what was it you wanted to ask me?”

“Ah, yes.” Jon took a deep breath. “Martin—will you follow up on Calvin Tang’s case with me?”

Martin tried very hard to keep his shoulders from sinking. “Oh. Yes. Of course. It’s, uh, my job, Jon.” He knew Jon’s delivery hadn’t been intentional. It couldn’t have been, right? Jon was stiff and awkward, occasionally snappish, but he was rarely _intentionally_ cruel. It was Martin’s fault for assuming things. What had he thought Jon was asking, anyway? They were getting closer, sure, but they weren’t _that_ close. His judgement was clearly impaired by terror and a deep need for more sleep.

“I know. But with all of your negative experiences recently, it doesn’t seem fair to saddle you with more fieldwork. It’s just that Yukti gave me an address where she believes he—Calvin—might be staying. I want to check it out as a possible lead before contacting the authorities, but I don’t want to go alone. I completely understand if you’d rather not participate.”

“No, it’s not a problem. If you’re going I’ll come along.” Martin tried to tell himself that, really, it was nice that Jon wanted him to go along. It was a sign of trust that Jon asked Martin before any of the other assistants, especially since Jon cared enough about the investigation to go himself even after the spider incident. It almost worked.

Under normal circumstances those thoughts wouldn’t have been very effective, but the fact that Martin was still sitting in Jon’s flat eating a home-cooked breakfast did a lot to soften the blow. Not that is should have been a blow in the first place, Martin reminded himself. Jon didn’t owe him anything. They were coworkers, and apparently friends, but that didn’t mean Jon liked him in any way but the strictly platonic. Their growing closeness was a sign of budding friendship. Martin was just overwhelmed by the sudden domesticity. There was nothing to be upset over.

The look of pleased relief on Jon’s face washed away a bit more of his disappointment. “Thank you, Martin. I’m sorry to be so reliant on you. I… feel much better knowing that we’ll be approaching the issue together.”

Martin relented into a soft smile. “Of course, Jon. I’ll be there to back you up. You can count on me.”

Jon coughed and rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “Right, well. Let’s get all this cleared away then. Bit early for big questions, I suppose.”

* * *

It was strange. Not unpleasant, just… strange. Jon wasn’t used to having someone else fill up the space of his home in quite the same way Martin did. There were a few books of poetry stacked up against his research materials. A small bag of toiletries sat on the edge of his sink next to his toothbrush. The bathroom wasn’t always free. Martin’s dishes sat in his sink, then clean in his drainer, then put away neatly in places just slightly different from where Jon would have put them away.

He had visitors, sometimes. When he’d been a researcher, he’d used the space for a couple of important interviews. Every few months an old bandmate would pop in for lunch and a catch-up, maybe a bit of a jam session if Jon could be convinced to pull out his harmonica. There was a time when Georgie would come over for movie nights and takeout every once in a while as well.

Jon gnawed at his lower lip. He should probably text some of them. Just check in about life, maybe set up some time with friends. He wasn’t used to reaching out, but lately his workload meant that he’d been rejecting most of their overtures too. He couldn’t remember the last time Georgie had been over.

He could tell Martin wasn’t trying to take up space. He mostly confined himself to his couch-bed, scribbling in his notebooks and typing away at his laptop. Jon thought there was something almost like reluctance in the way that Martin navigated the flat. His eyes never settled anywhere, always flicking around to be sure he wasn’t in Jon’s way or disturbing any of his possessions. Wherever he walked, he kept his arms in tight to his sides, pulling in on himself.

Though he wasn’t sure exactly where the feeling came from, Jon knew he wanted Martin to feel more comfortable. After all, wasn’t that the reason he’d invited Martin over in the first place? Right. So Martin could recover from the worm incident. So the two of them could have some company after a string of truly horrifying experiences. He studied the back of Martin’s head, as he was busy standing a respectable distance from Jon’s shelves and surveying the media on display.

How could he make Martin feel more at home? The few friends who came over usually just settled right in, familiar with Jon and understanding of his space. They tended to fit confidently into any new environment. Martin, obviously, was different.

Jon had tried making food for him. It had gone over well; Martin’s praise for his cooking skills was pretty effusive. It just hadn’t helped Martin to settle in and unwind the tension that spring-loaded him. Jon supposed he could try taking out his old harmonica, but the idea of playing anything for Martin prickled the back of his neck and ears in a way that promised mortification down the line.

“You’ve got so many movies!” Martin exclaimed, sounding pleased. “I don’t know why, but I didn’t really take you for a cinema fan.”

“I’m, well, I’m not. Not especially. I do have a bit of a collection, but most of those movies aren’t mine. Friends tend to leave them or gift them. I don’t watch much telly.”

Martin raised an eyebrow. “Oh, really?”

Jon hoped his confusion was at the fact that the movies weren’t his, or that he didn’t watch television, and not at the idea that Jon had friends. “A few of my bandmates in college made it a bit of a tradition. I was one of the few living in a studio, so there was room for movie nights, but I never had anything around to watch, and we could never agree on the TV guide. Once my roommate joined in on movie nights we were the de facto repository for all DVDs. At least a third of those were burned illegally, and I think maybe a third more were rented and never returned.”

“Ooh, so I’m looking at a wall of Jonathan Sims’s contraband?”

Jon snorted. “I suppose so. It was important to my bandmates and roommate that we had a wide enough selection to fight over. In fact, some of the scratches on those disks are probably from nails. My bassist once snapped a disk in half because she was getting so heated about the fact that we _should_ watch it.” He realized he was smiling.

Martin returned his grin. “Sounds like an interesting bunch.”

“They were an excellent crew.” Jon stepped closer to examine the shelves, trying to ignore the way Martin crammed himself into an even smaller space to accommodate him. Actually… that gave him an idea. “Would you like to watch something before dinner?”

The way Martin’s eyes widened suggested good things. “I did notice you’ve got just about every Bond film ever made.”

Rolling his eyes, Jon slipped _Goldfinger_ off the shelf. “One of my roommate’s friends had a bit of an obsession. I suppose I wouldn’t mind re-watching one.”

“The classic! Should I fold the bed back up?”

Jon had forgotten that the pullout couch was also the one positioned right in front of the television and DVD player. “Ah. Well, if you mind us sitting on your sheets, yes.”

“Oh, I—I don’t mind. I just—if it’s okay to leave it out, that’s fine.”

“Excellent. I’ll—would you like anything to eat?” Jon only had a few weapons in his arsenal of ways to be nice to people. Food was a major one, though he rarely had the chance to deploy it in the archives.

Martin hummed. “Do you have popcorn, actually? I can make it. It’s just been a while since I sat down to watch a movie.”

“No, no, you’re a guest. Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.” Jon set up the movie in a hurry, quite proud of his clear directive for Martin to become more comfortable, and headed into the kitchen to pop a packet of kernels. While they popped, he contemplated the sound of Martin puttering about in the living room. As unusual as it was, he decided he really didn’t mind having another body around the flat. Specifically Martin. He’d expected the awkwardness, obviously. He’d also expected there to be more… discomfort on his own part.

The kernels began to pop. He tried to focus on the bevy of tiny explosions, listening for them to trail off, rather than examining the warmth he felt as Martin began to hum a tune in the other room. It was just nice to have another person around. Yes, he and Martin had some early conflicts, but lately they’d been getting much closer. It really wasn’t so strange to enjoy his company or to want him to feel comfortable around Jon.

He drizzled some melted butter over the bowl of popcorn and followed it with the last of the flaky sea salt in his cupboard. That was how Georgie liked her popcorn, though she usually added pieces of chocolate or crushed crisps or some sort of neon cheese powder as well. He didn’t want to make assumptions about Martin’s view on neon cheese powder. Best to keep it simple.

When he wandered back into the living room, he found that Martin had taken a few of the displaced couch cushions and aligned them across the head of the bed, forming a sort of bed-couch hybrid. His back was up against the cushions. Jon realized suddenly why Martin had asked about putting the bed away in the first place. Obviously it would be terribly awkward for them both to perch on the edge of the bed with their faces up against the screen, but the alternative was for them both to basically lie back in the bed.

At least Martin had the foresight to smooth down the top-sheet and throw on some couch cushions so it felt more like a lounge chair and less like, well, sharing a bed. Jon supposed he could ask Martin to put the bed away after all. But his goal had been to make Martin more comfortable, right? And the other man certainly looked comfortable sprawled back on those cushions with his brown curls framing his face and hands clasped over his stomach.

“Popcorn,” Jon announced, trying not to let his voice waver as he occupied the other side of the bed and held the bowl out to Martin. “Remote’s on your other side.”

Martin started the movie and popped a handful of kernels into his mouth. “Thank you, Jon.”

“It’s not hard to make,” he deflected, taking his own handful.

“No, I mean—well, yeah. Thanks for the popcorn. But also—you know. Thanks for watching a movie with me and having me over and cooking for us and—for everything, lately. I appreciate it.”

Jon was very glad they were both staring at the screen, because he could feel an embarrassed flush burning on his face. “Yes. I mean, ah, you’re very welcome. It’s my pleasure.”

The silence they slipped into as the credit sequence rolled wasn’t exactly comfortable, but it wasn’t awkward either. They slipped closer to comfortable as the movie played on, each laughing in the same places. Martin didn’t even seem to mind when Jon started a whispered critique of the film. It was a bad habit that had gotten him exiled from a few of the more heartfelt movie nights, relegated to the kitchen to prepare movie snacks and complain to anyone who came to eat them about the lacking cinematography.

It was nice to have a willing audience, though Martin’s willingness might have had something to do with his clear exhaustion. He tried to respond to Jon’s comments with his own defense of the film, but was continually interrupting himself with yawns, sinking deeper and deeper into the couch cushions behind them.

By the midpoint of the film, he was solidly asleep. Soft snoring breaths whooshed out of him. Jon could feel some of the same exhaustion settling into him. They’d gone to bed far too late, woken up early, and been fueled mostly by adrenaline for the past day and a half. He carefully reached over Martin to pick up the remote and switch the television off.

Martin didn’t wake up, but he did shift on the cushions, sleeping body slipping to one side. His head landed pillowed on Jon’s shoulder. Jon froze, remote still in his hand, and stared down with panic at Martin’s relaxed face.

A slight smile twisted the other man’s lips. He was still breathing softly, but Jon could feel each of the exhales ghosting across his clavicle. Martin’s head was a warm weight on his shoulder. Soft curls wisped against his neck. Jon knew he should shake Martin awake and clear out of the room to let him get back to sleep in a more comfortable, less compromising position.

Instead he found himself settling against Martin’s side. The warm, steady pressure grounded him. Tension sapped out of his body as he leaned back against the cushions, Martin sinking into him. He knew he should move. It wasn’t even respectful to Martin, to be relishing a moment of unconscious closeness. It was just—he’d had _such_ a long couple of days. It felt so nice to just be close to someone in a way that was unhurried and natural and comfortable.

He let his own head fall softly on top of Martin’s, cheek pressing into a mop of velvet curls. A breath in, a deep sigh. Almost without noticing, he found himself aligning the rest of his body, pressing his legs in closer to Martin’s and letting his arm shift closer to the other man’s body.

Jon’s eyes fluttered closed. He would wake Martin up soon, he told himself. It wouldn’t do any harm to feel comfortable for a few moments more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I or did I not promise unabashed fluff?? Well here it is! Please leave a comment or kudos if it made your teeth hurt (or, you know, if you like my writing and want to see more of it). Midterms and elections and starting up my next manuscript have all been kicking my ass, but we're pushing through on the update schedule!! 
> 
> Super special thanks as always to my recurring commenters <3 This week's 1% shares in my heart go to The_Lizard for their enthusiasm, Ixempt for their super-satisfying reviews, Amnesty for all their sweet comments, and Luxa_Kvothe who I hope has a wonderful day today <3 
> 
> And to everyone else who's previously earned a shoutout; I'm still deeply in love with you and your feedback :) Stay safe out there and take good care of yourselves, I'll see you next week.


	12. Resist The Pull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martin and Jon make some decisions over dinner.

Martin shrugged his shoulders, trying to writhe his way out of the sleep still clinging to his bones. He groaned into the warm weight against his side. Had he managed to wedge himself against a wall? His eyelids were heavy with residual exhaustion.

The world came back to him slowly at first. He wasn’t sleeping at home; he hadn’t been home since moving into the archives. They’d had to leave the archives too. Crawling things seemed to follow him everywhere, spiders and worms and wriggling anxious thoughts. But he hadn’t gone home after the archives. All at once, he remembered exactly where he was. That meant he also recognized the bony shape he’d pressed himself up against.

He was practically splayed on top of Jon. One of the other man’s arms snaked over Martin’s shoulder, resting flat on the back of his neck, thin fingers clutching at his curls. His face was pillowed on Jon’s chest, which rose and fell gently with each breath. Martin’s own arm was wrapped around Jon’s waist. The two of them were pressed close together, Martin curled around Jon’s torso, their knees knocking into each other. Heat seeped into the junctures of their bodies. Martin hadn’t felt so warm and so safe since a long time before Prentiss entered his life.

The light filtering through Jon’s windows spelled evening. Letting a deep breath go, he shut his eyes and nuzzled softly into Jon’s shirt, willing the moment to last a little longer. The steady beat of Jon’s heart pounded under his cheek. Martin could feel it—the proof that, despite everything they’d been through, Jon was safe and well—and it set the tempo for his own heart, pounding away at the bars of his ribcage.

Jon let out a soft sound. That was the only way Martin could describe it. It was soft and sleepy and so precious that if Martin hadn’t been busy pretending to be asleep he might have started tearing up instead. He expected Jon to move away or shake him awake. The other man must not have been fully awake yet, because instead he just sighed and pressed his forehead into Martin’s hair. After a few shuffling adjustments, Jon’s breath sank back into its soothing rhythm. Martin wondered whether it was possible to make a moment live forever in his brain.

He resolved to get up. Sometime in the near future, he was definitely going to get up. It wasn’t fair to Jon to leave them both in a compromising position. It also, he was beginning to realize, wasn’t fair to himself. The stolen moments of affection—Jon sleeping at his bedside, their entwined hands in the archives, waking up wound together like this—only filled him with aching hope. He had to put a stop to it.

There were only two options. Firstly, and preferably, he would suddenly develop the strength of will to completely distance himself from his feelings for Jon. They would have a beautiful friendship that progressed without any interference from his stupid hopeful heart. They would be professional at work, friendly after hours, and just be good and happy forever. Separately.

The other option was nuclear. He could actually try asking Jon out. Just be honest about his feelings, make it clear he had no expectations and wouldn’t make things awkward at work, and see how things went. It might very well kill him. On the other hand, he would know he’d tried. No matter what happened, it would fuel his poetry for months or years to come. Part of him couldn’t help but feel—as insane as he knew it was—that after all of their meals and talks and shared horror stories, Jon might even consider saying yes. Or at least not hating Martin forever. Best to keep his expectations low.

Jon shifted in his sleep, fingers brushing up into Martin’s curls, and let out a quiet snort. Martin stoically did not giggle. He did resolve, for better or worse, to ask Jon out on a real date. At some point. Some near point. Probably not right then, when he was literally about to spend the night on Jon’s couch. Certainly not right before he and Jon embarked on the next stage of the Tang investigation. He didn’t think he could handle grabbing Jon’s hand to drag him out of danger post-rejection.

That settled it. He would ask Jon out as soon as they completed the investigation. With that in mind, he gathered the resolve to roll off of Jon and swing himself up out of bed. He walked all the way around to Jon’s side before shaking the other man awake. Groaning in protest, Jon stretched out across the bed, pressing his face down into the mattress.

“Uh, Jon?” Martin prodded. “Did you maybe want me to throw something together for supper? It’s getting a bit late.”

“What—?” Jon asked, staring blearily up at Martin. His glasses sat on the headboard.

“It’s me, Martin. Here, let me grab your glasses.”

Jon’s eyes focused. “Oh! Martin! Yes, ah, my apologies. Not very good manners of me to fall asleep on the guest bed.” He accepted his glasses from Martin and perched them on the bridge of his nose. “I should probably get a start on dinner. What time is it?”

Martin checked his watch, which had left an imprint carved into his wrist where he’d slept on it. “Half past six. Could you use any help in the kitchen?”

Jon got to his feet, joints cracking as he stretched. “If you’d like to assist me, I’m sure I can find something to keep you busy.” He marched toward the kitchen with an air of outsized determination. “Let’s get to work.”

* * *

Martin made a surprisingly competent sous chef. He chopped and diced and minced whatever Jon handed him, stirred reliably, and obediently tasted for seasoning at every step. It was actually rather pleasant to have another body working with Jon in the kitchen. He could delegate to Martin all the mindless intermediary tasks he didn’t care to waste time on. It was almost discomfiting how very comfortable Jon found himself feeling.

Aside from his potential as a kitchen helper, it was simply nice to have Martin around. The other man hummed and smiled while he worked, keeping up a steady stream of amiable but largely ignorable chatter, and didn’t seem to mind Jon ordering him about. It was refreshing to cook for someone other than just himself. He hadn’t done much of even that lately, subsisting mostly on take-away and packaged meals when he managed to catch a few hours rest from work.

It wasn’t so bad taking time off when he had someone around to spend that time with. Martin fit so well into the empty space around Jon, leaning around him to collect dirty dishes as they worked and turning the pages in Jon’s exacting hand-written recipes without having to be told.

Jon willed himself not to blush as he remembered waking up on the pullout to Martin’s voice. _Right_ , his sleep-addled brain had filled in, still half-dreaming, _that’s Martin come to wake you up. You must live together. Isn’t that nice?_

It was nice. In that moment of dream logic, accepting that he and Martin lived together and that Martin probably woke him up like that every morning, Jon had been quite content with the idea. Jon hadn’t liked the idea of waking up to someone since Georgie left him.

There was something unfair in that. He was Martin’s superior at work and he’d spent months relentlessly beating him down to his face. If he’d known that Martin was going to find his way into Jon’s stony heart he probably would have made at least some effort be kind. Knowing himself, he would probably have failed, but it would have been better than nothing.

Somehow, for some unfathomable reason, Martin was still falling asleep on his shoulder and helping him cook a shared dinner. That had to mean something. _It means Martin’s a far nicer and more forgiving man than you could ever hope to be!_ His brain cheerfully reminded him. _It certainly doesn’t mean he wants to spend_ more _time with you_.

“Jon?”

He spun around to face Martin, wooden spoon clenched in one hand. “Yes?”

Martin pointed down at his cutting board. “Is this chicken the right size for the biryani?”

“Oh, yes. That looks good. Just set them in the marinade. Uh, thank you for your help, Martin.”

The other man beamed at him. “Thanks for letting me try my hand at it! I usually just cook the same meat and two veg every night, if I cook for myself at all. It’s nice to have a project.”

Jon softened, turning back to stir the onions frying on the stove. “I’m glad. It is a change of pace to have someone else around the kitchen.”

“I hope I’m not imposing too much! I mean, you seem to really know what you’re doing, I don’t want to be in your way.”

Just because he could, Jon flipped the onions in the pan. Martin made a suitably impressed sound. “Not at all. It’s a good chance of pace.”

“Oh. Oh, that’s—cool.”

Jon glanced over his shoulder. Martin was staring down at the marinating chicken, the tips of his ears standing bright pink against his hair. Jon’s heart slammed into his sternum. Covering his sudden embarrassment up with a cough, he turned back to the counter, hurriedly reaching for some cardamom pods to grind. His hands needed something to do in order to keep his brain busy.

It would seem, based on his limited observation, that Martin enjoyed spending time with him. He was becoming increasingly certain that he enjoyed Martin. Well, spending time with Martin. And being around Martin. And talking to, listening to, and looking at Martin. He supposed the natural thing to do in that case would be for them to spend more time together.

Martin deposited his minced garlic into the skillet of onions, which were nearly done. Right. They were, at least temporarily, living together. It was difficult to spend more time together than that. Still, Jon had made Martin suffer enough abuse and uncertainty. If he wanted to be closer, he should probably clearly tell the other man what he thought.

Did people do that? Flat out tell each other when they wanted to be closer? Generally, Jon just sort of accrued friends and acquaintances. His college bandmates had clustered together because of their shared love of steampunk and sea shanties. Somehow, they’d all grown to care about each other, most of the members taking a totally unexpected (at least by him) fondness to Jon.

Sure, Georgie had asked him if he wanted to be friends. Later, woozy with laughter and exhausted from fleeing sirens, he asked her to be his girlfriend. She informed him that, to her knowledge, they’d been dating for the past month, so perhaps that was another point on the side of _these things just happen_. Not that he was going to ask Martin to be his boyfriend. That would be completely unprofessional. Also, Martin had just been hunted by worms for the second time in weeks, with an unhealthy dose of spiders in between. He didn’t need the added stress of being pursued by his boss.

Jon furrowed his brow, setting the actual dining table while they waited for the meat to marinate. Did that mean he _would_ want to ask Martin out if they hadn’t just experienced so many horrors? If it weren’t for the worms, he wouldn’t even have gotten to know the other man.

Would he want to ask Martin out if the other man wasn’t his employee? _Yes_ , he decided, the choice reverberating through his whole body. Evidence suggested that yes, he would want to. They went out for dinner and Jon enjoyed it. He wanted to do it more often. They went to sleep—if not together, at least close to it—and Jon enjoyed Martin’s closeness. His hand fit in Martin’s. Martin’s head fit on his shoulder. Martin fit into his kitchen, his home, and his life.

“I think the rice is done,” Martin called from the kitchen. “Can we layer it yet?”

Jon shook himself out of his thoughts with a wagging mental finger. Whatever realizations he was coming to, they would have to wait. Their boss-employee relationship already made things difficult. Jon shouldn’t even be considering Martin in a romantic light while the other man was in his home and dependent on him for food and a bed.

“I’ll check the marinade.” He moved back into the kitchen and let himself be folded up into the comforting domestic rhythm of preparing food.

By the time they sat down to eat, he could almost pretend there was nothing strange about having Martin at his dinner table, chewing happily on a dish they’d made together.

“This is delicious,” Martin said, stretching out languid vowels. “I can’t believe you made this.”

“We made it. And we did an excellent job.”

Martin’s smile from across the table made Jon swallow on reflex.

“Right, we made it. Not to repeat myself, but seriously, I’m so grateful to you for letting me stay here. It’s—I think it’s been really good for me to get a bit of normal back, you know? Well, not exactly normal, obviously. I guess normal would be going back home and not thinking about worms. But you know what I mean.”

“I know,” Jon replied, and he meant it.

It wasn’t normal to have Martin in his home. It wasn’t normal to share dinner with another person or fall asleep cuddled up watching a movie. But it felt like it could be normal; a really good kind of normal. It felt like something Jon could get used to in a way that spoke of comfort, but also something he would never get used to in a way that kept his heart fluttering in his chest. It felt really, really good.

* * *

As they finished up dinner, clearing dishes away and packing up the leftovers, Martin found himself torn. On the one hand, he very much wanted to finish a nice normal night and head straight to bed. He felt like he could probably sleep through the next several weeks if the nerves of being in his crush’s house didn’t keep him awake. Judging by the fact that he fell asleep on said crush’s shoulder earlier, he didn’t think it would be much of an issue.

On the other hand, since having decided that the end of the Tang investigation was his deadline for asking Jon out, a part of him that shocked the rest couldn’t wait for that end to arrive. He was strung tense with anticipation rather than nerves. He’d been carrying his hopeless crush for just over a year. It was time to finally get some resolution.

It was harder to maintain his resolve when he looked over at Jon drying each dish before setting it in his cupboard. Jon’s hair had grown out since he started working at the archives. The silver streaks had grown more prominent, shining under the dim kitchen light like ribbons. There were new wrinkles in Jon’s forehead and at the corners of his eyes. Martin didn’t want to lose that view. He looked even more beautiful than the day Martin met him, with a dog running loose in the archives, and knew he was probably doomed.

Martin didn’t have a type. He’d dated all kinds of people with all kinds of looks and all kinds of aesthetics. Most of the dates hadn’t gone anywhere, but there was no real pattern in those that had, except that they eventually tended to end with Martin withdrawing as his partner became increasingly frustrated with his doting or his bouts of depression. He tried not to dwell on that.

What mattered was that the moment he saw Jon, something in his chest decided _that_ was it. That was going to be his type for the foreseeable future. Jon, with his bookish clothes and thin frame, his constant frustration and his handsome strong-boned face, tied knots in Martin’s stomach. He still did, over a year later. Especially since he’d added new, completely unfair weapons to his arsenal, like smiling at Martin with gentle eyes and being an excellent cook.

Most of Martin was terrified at the prospect of doing anything to jeopardize their new closeness. He valued Jon not just as an unattainable crush but as a surprisingly good friend. If he tried to make a change in their relationship, obviously _something_ would be different, whether or not it was the different Martin was looking for. Still, he’d waited a year to get so far. It would only hurt worse if he never tried.

“So,” Martin began, trying to sound both extremely casual and reasonably serious, “what’s our next move on Calvin Tang? Just head to the address Yukti gave us and scan the area?”

For once, Jon looked surprised that the conversation was turning to work. “Ah, yes. I suppose so. We’ll bring some supplies, should we need to defend ourselves, and develop a plan of attack. I looked the address up while you were searching for saffron; it seems to have been a store run by Mr. Tang and his mother in his youth. It has since been abandoned.”

“Right. Should we pop by tomorrow, then?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “I thought the point of leaving the archives was to get some time away from work?”

“Well, I haven’t done any work today. My plan was not to get eaten by worms. To be honest, I don’t think I’ll really be able to relax until I’m sure I won’t be eaten by spiders either.” He rethought Jon’s expression of surprise. “Oh, but if you’re not comfortable with it, obviously it can wait. Or I can head over and just observe from afar and report back.”

“No. No, I absolutely won’t have you going in alone. I, ah, feel the same way. I’d like to exhaust our avenues of investigation and put this whole situation out of mind as quickly as possible. We’ll go tomorrow.”

“Okay, great.” Martin rinsed the last few dishes and passed them over Jon’s way. “I guess I should head to bed soon, then. If we’re going to head out for supplies beforehand.”

“Ah, right. Yes. Is there, uh, anything else you needed to set up?”

Martin shook his head. “No, I’ve got everything. I mean—unless you had anything else around the house you need help with?”

Jon shook his head. “Er, no. I—no, I don’t think so.”

“Cool.” Out of dishes, Martin began to scrub the sink, unwilling to move away and start preparing for bed.

“Unless—ah— did—” Jon’s face twisted with indecision. He wrung the napkin he was holding, looking everywhere but Martin’s face. “Did you want to finish the movie?”

Martin’s eyes widened. “Oh! Right, we—we didn’t finish it.” Jon snuck a glance over at him, looking so endearingly nervous that Martin could resist bumping their shoulders together as he turned away from the sink. “Of course I’d like to finish it. Just—let me get ready for bed, yeah? In case I fall asleep again.”

Jon smiled. His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners and Martin felt his own lips shape a grin. “Perfect.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Midterms finally came around and kicked my ass this week, but here I am back with another chapter, because I love you all so much. By you all I specifically mean those of you leaving comments and kudos, who I love most. 
> 
> A few of you who I love most are: humble_bumblebee for their awesome feedback, littlecrows for joining the squad, and those of you (like Luxa_Kvothe, Pigeonfeatherquill, the_maybe, shinyopals, etc., etc.) who keep showing up and reading chapter after chapter. Yes, I admit it, I tell my friends I have fans, because y'all make me feel like the writing I do for this fic is worth doing <3 <3 <3 Thanks for all your feedback and support.
> 
> I promise a longer chapter next week... but I also promise spiders. Look out for that.


	13. Said The Spider To The Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin move to wrap up their investigations. Instead, they become uninvited guests and hear a little story.
> 
> !!!SPOILER ALERT!!!  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> Summary for those avoiding content warnings: Jon and Martin pack up and have breakfast. They head to the storefront Calvin and Lian Tang used to own. The bottom floor is normal, as are most of the rooms upstairs, but they find what used to be Calvin Tang hiding in one of the abandoned rooms. The moment they disturb him, spiders flood the upstairs hallway, corralling Jon and Martin into the attic crawlspace. They try to block the trapdoor. Calvin gives his statement, describing years of feeling weak and being manipulated by others, as well as a specific preoccupation with blood due to a medical condition and subsequent long-term hospitalization. He claims that "Calvin is gone", but he is left, and he finally has control. He also threatens to kill Jon and Martin.  
> .  
> .  
> .  
> !!!SPOILERS OVER!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all, thanks so much for your support on midterms <3 We're getting into the thick of it now! Enjoy the chapter if you're in the headspace for it-- if not, enjoy this little morning scene and some surprises from Jon and SKIP SECTION beginning “And then the attic,” Martin agreed, already positioning himself by the door. “I’ll just take a peek.” 
> 
> CONTENT WARNINGS  
> !!!SPOILER ALERT!!!  
> .  
> .  
> spiders  
> manipulation  
> past abuse mentions  
> threats  
> character distress  
> .  
> .  
> !!!SPOILERS END!!!

Martin woke up to his phone’s insistent ringing. He scrambled for it, bedsheets bunching around his legs, and cursed how wide and empty the pullout couch felt without Jon’s body curled over his. He grabbed his mobile and pressed it to his ear without bothering to check Caller ID.

“’llo?” he croaked, voice thick with the dregs of sleep.

“Mr. Martin Blackwood,” Tim drawled, stretching out languid vowels in the most suggestive way possible, “inquiring minds want to know: are you _still_ not back at your own flat?”

“Wha-? ‘M at Jon’s.”

“How positively scandalous!” Tim was putting on the voice he usually reserved for flirting with low-ranking government officials and police informants.

Martin scrubbed his eyes with a fist and blew out a soft sigh. “Look, I stayed over on the couch. It’s been a hard week. We both needed the company. It’s not—nothing _happened_.”

Sasha cackled in the background, sending static down the line. “You owe me a tenner, Stoker!”

“Oh, come on, Sash. I paid for take-away last night!”

Choking down a sigh, Martin pulled the covers back over himself. “Good to know my life is a hot spot for chancy wagers. Speaking of which, could you check in tonight?”

“Ooh, planning to take a chance on—”

There was a scuffle, followed by a yelp from Tim.

“Of course, Martin!” Sasha replied, having taken control of the line. “What should we be checking for? Congratulations, by the way, even if nothing’s happened yet.”

Conscious of the fact that Jon was still somewhere in the apartment, Martin lowered his voice. “Look, I get it, you’re having a laugh. But nothing’s going on. I just need you to check in because we’re going back to work on the Tang investigation today, and I don’t want to end up forgotten and missing for weeks if we get eaten by spiders. _Please_ don’t say anything weird to Jon.”

“You shouldn’t be working!” Tim yelled from the background. “We’re supposed to be recovering. Not our fault the boss-man can’t take one day away from the archives. Why not just, I don’t know, tell him you’ve got something more important to investigate and kiss him senseless?”

Martin let out a squeak and buried his face in his hands. “Tim, _really_. I’m asking you to make sure I’m not dead!”

“You can count on us,” Sasha assured him. “Though you probably can’t count on Tim to lay off of you. He insisted on calling to ask if you and Jon had ‘sealed the deal’.”

Tim whined over her shoulder. "I just want them to snog!"

“I’m going to hang up,” Martin announced, hoping the phone didn’t convey how tight his voice was. At least Tim couldn’t see his red face.

“No, hey, come on,” Tim wailed, “I want details! What’s Jon’s flat like? Is he super weird at home? Does he sleep at a desk there too? Hey—no—Sash—ah!” This was followed by a flurry of shrieks and laughter that Martin hoped meant Sasha was tickling Tim away from the phone and not smothering him with a pillow.

She returned, breathless. “Sorry about him. You can give us all the details once we’re allowed to get back to work; maybe over assistants’ lunch? But just to clarify, in the interest of making sure you’re alive when we get back to work—why are you two still looking into Tang? Didn’t the police take that over?”

“Yukti gave Jon an address. Apparently, uh, Calvin sent it to her somehow? And, um, actually, I was the one who suggested we do it today. I’d—sort of like to get it over with. Anyway, we’re just going by to check the place out. If anything looks suspicious, we’ll call the ECDC. Or the police. I’ll definitely call you two if death seems imminent.”

“So we can listen in?” Tim interrupted, earning him what sounded like a solid smack on the shoulder from Sasha.

“Look, we can hash it all out once the investigation’s over and I’m back home.” There was a loud knock on the front door. “Actually, uh, someone’s at the door? I’ll call you back tonight. Or not, I suppose.”

He hung up and pushed himself out of bed, tugging down his sleep shirt, which rode up in the night to bare his stomach. Jon’s floor was ice under his bare feet. The front door didn’t have a peephole, but Martin noted the reinforced chain, which would allow him to open the door just enough to peek outside. It looked to have been recently installed.

Cracking the door open, he peered out into the hall. Jon stood in front of the doorway, a large paper shopping bag hanging from each arm. His neck was wrapped in the scarf Martin knitted for him. The deep green yarn nuzzled into his coat’s lapels. His cheeks were flushed dark, eyes shining from exertion.

“Are you going to let me in?” he asked, voice a bit raspy.

“R-right! Didn’t realize you’d gone out, sorry.” Martin hurriedly unbolted the door, fingers shaking on the chain, holding the image of Jon’s wry smile in his mind. He stepped back to let Jon into the flat.

Jon crossed the room and deposited his bags on the small table, letting out a sigh of relief. “Yes, I went for a walk. I had—some important things to consider. Along the way, I decided to pick up materials for our investigation.” He withdrew a large bottle of bug spray, a crank-powered flashlight, a few lighters, a pair of masks, a collapsible broom, and some assorted groceries from the first bag. “I hope you, ah, slept well enough?”

“Yes, actually. Thanks again for letting me stay over. This was—well, definitely a lot more comfortable than the cot at the institute.”

Martin tried not to dwell on his memories of the night before when he looked at Jon’s flushed face. As their movie drew to a close, exhaustion had overtaken him again, sending him slumping back into the cushions. His body practically melted into the warm sheets. The film was a comforting background drone, low and soothing. So slowly he barely registered the movement, his head lolled over onto Jon’s shoulder.

Martin wanted to straighten back up and apologize. He made a real effort to open his eyes and tilt back the other way—Jon’s shoulder was just so _comfortable_. The other man’s delicate bones formed a cradle that perfectly fit Martin’s head. Warmth emanated from his exposed skin as Martin nestled into the crook of Jon’s neck. He couldn’t help thinking about the way he’d woken up sprawled across Jon only hours before.

After a few seconds, he fully expected the other man to push him off. He didn’t.

They sat like that for a while, Martin drawing in even breaths to hide his shuddering heartbeat, feeling every point of contact. Jon let out a small sigh and shifted to let Martin drape heavier along his arm. The credits rolled quietly by. Gently, Jon’s fingers carded through the curls framing Martin’s face. After a long moment, the pads of his fingers resting on Martin’s cheek, he shifted away.

Martin tried not to move as Jon covered him with an extra blanket, smoothing the edges carefully around the contours of Martin’s own shoulders. He lay like that for a long while, still feeling the pressure of Jon’s hands over the sheet, before drifting off into dreams of silvering hair and dark eyes.

“I’m glad,” Jon replied, startling him out of his reverie. “And I—well, I didn’t want to wake you by preparing breakfast. So—” He withdrew a smaller bag from the groceries and passed it to Martin.

“Oh, thank you!” Martin opened it to find a fresh currant bun, still a bit warm, and a slice of quiche wrapped in wax paper.

“I hope that’s fine?”

Martin set the bag down on the couch arm. “Yes, this looks great. I, uh, actually just got up? I should probably brush my teeth and get some clothes on first. Sorry for sleeping in so late.”

Jon waved him off. “No, no, it’s no trouble. That was the point of your staying over, if I recall correctly.”

With a smile, Martin collected his things. “Have you eaten already?”

“Ah, no. Shall I wait for you?”

“I’ll be quick.”

Martin rushed to the bathroom, leaving Jon in the living room to put their supplies away. He cleaned himself up and brushed the curls back from his face. They were getting a bit long—he considered trying to tie or style them back, so they wouldn’t get in his face, but the length was just at that awkward stage where he couldn’t gather them all up in any useful way. He pulled on a thick jumper along with his clothes. He didn’t know what they might run into in the course of their investigation, but it was probably best to be prepared for anything. The corkscrew still sat at the bottom of his bag. He would take it along, just in case.

He emerged back into the living room to find Jon setting a pot of tea on the table. Martin’s breakfast was arranged on a plate. Jon had picked out a scone for himself. They settled into their chairs to eat.

“How was your walk?” Martin prompted, taking a bite of the bun and humming in appreciation.

Jon broke off a piece of his scone. “It was—fine. As I said, a lot to think about.”

“Oh.” Martin chewed slowly, schooling his face into an open expression. If nothing else, he knew he was a good listener.

Shifting in his chair, Jon swallowed. “I, ah—hadn’t really had much time yesterday to consider… Gertrude. What… happened to her.”

Martin nodded, taking a forkful of quiche, keeping his eyes loosely focused on Jon.

“It’s just not very pleasant to think about. I mean— there’s no doubt she was killed because of her role as archivist. By someone working near or within the institute. It’s just beginning to strike me what a dangerous line of work I find myself in.” He sighed. “Or, I suppose, we find ourselves in.”

“Yeah. I understand how you feel. It’s— intimidating. 

Taking a large bite of his scone, Jon hunched down in his chair. “Sometimes I feel like I’m no longer the one directing my own life. No matter what I do, terrible things are likely to happen to me. To everyone around me. I just— don’t know what I need to be doing differently.”

Martin waited for Jon to continue. He didn’t. “I’ve felt that too. It’s easy to move on from there to overanalyzing everything we do. We just make the choices we think will keep us safe and make the world better; we do our best to deal with whatever comes next. I— sometimes I feel like it isn’t worth trying. Like the choices I make don’t really matter to anyone.”

“They do,” Jon said, firm and sure. “I mean— you matter, Martin. Don’t let my existential fear get to you. It’s just— I mean, take following up on the Tang investigation. Wouldn’t it be safer to just call the ECDC like you suggested? Am I leading us into danger for no reason other than curiosity? I feel like all the choices I make are the wrong ones.” He took a sip of tea and winced as it singed his tongue.

Martin worked up a cautious smile. “Maybe they are, sometimes. We can’t always know. But, um, I know that whatever happens today, you’ll— _we’ll_ be there for each other, right? And we can just—I don’t know—figure out how to deal with whatever comes.”

“Right. Even if what comes are loads of spiders.”

“I’ll be honest, Jon. It’s probably going to be loads of spiders.”

Jon snorted. “Right. Well, best to be ready for it.” He sipped at the rest of his tea more slowly.

Martin reached into his mind, gathered up all his worries about what they were about to do and what he had planned for afterward, and deposited them deep in a storage closet. Instead he enjoyed the way light played across Jon’s face as he sipped from a chipped mug. He smiled down into his own cup. They finished the meal in comfortable silence, Martin sneaking glances across the table to watch Jon drifting in thought.

“Well, then,” he said, inspecting his empty plate, “are we ready to go?”

Jon raised an eyebrow. “Whenever you are.”

* * *

Jon found himself hanging closer to Martin as they approached the shop where Lian and Calvin Tang once made a living. His bag was packed with all kinds of tools— from a thermometer to a kitchen knife— should they be required. He had his phone secured in a pocket for emergency calls. There was just something about Martin’s solid presence that put him much more at ease than any of their other preparations.

“Is this it?” Martin asked, gesturing to a building across the street.

It wasn’t clear at first that the shop was abandoned. The door was locked, the sign turned to closed, but the windows were clear and the paint on the sign above the door looked fresh. As they drew closer, Jon spotted a faded notice taped to the front window. The shelves inside were barren.

“It doesn’t look all that menacing,” Martin said, pressing his face to the glass. “Any idea how we’ll be getting in?”

“Ah, yes. If you wouldn’t mind standing by the door for a moment?” Martin moved into place, watching Jon with confusion. After a quick glance up and down the quiet road to scan for any observers, Jon pulled two lockpicking tools from his bag. “Please keep a lookout.”

Martin let out a quiet guffaw. “Jonathan Sims, are you seriously telling me you’ve known how to pick locks this whole time?”

Feeling oddly proud of being able to surprise Martin, Jon knelt down to observe the lock. “My band didn’t have a dedicated practice space when we first formed. There were plenty of empty rooms in the music building, but we couldn’t get permission to use them, so we...made ourselves at home.”

He held his tension wrench in place and began to pick at the pins, which set one after the other with satisfying clicks. After a few minutes, the lock gave in to his ministrations. He pulled the door open and hurried inside, ushering Martin in after him.

“You know, Jon, I never would’ve picked you for such a rebel.”

Jon surveyed the room, taking in empty coolers and a stripped checkout stand. “I suppose I’ve got a few surprises left in me.”

The two of them meandered through the store, brushing away layers of dust and searching for—something. Jon wasn’t sure what. There were no photos, not even the single family portrait hanging from Mr. Blanken’s wall. The building seemed truly abandoned. 

“Jon? Come take a look at this.” Martin stood by a small wooden door beside the restroom. He swung it open, revealing a staircase leading up.

Jon hadn’t spared a thought to the building’s second story. He wandered over to Martin’s side and stared through the open doorway. Despite his initial nerves, he was feeling rather less anxious than expected with Martin at his side. “Well, shall we?”

“Guess so. Do you see anything weird up there?”

The stairwell was dark. Jon opened his bag and dug through it, emerging with the flashlight he’d packed just in case. He shone it up toward the landing. The stairwell was empty. It was also relatively clean, coated in a thin layer of dust without any significant cobwebs. That was mostly reassuring. All the same, Jon wasn’t sure what they would do if the address turned out to be a dead end.

He mounted the stairs with Martin trailing close behind.

“What’s the plan?” Martin murmured, breath brushing close to the back of Jon’s neck.

“There… isn’t one, really. Look around. Don’t get separated. We’ll do a quick sweep. If we find nothing, we leave. If we find… something, I suppose we turn and run. And we call in the professionals. And we know.”

“We know,” Martin echoed, sounding even less certain than Jon.

They reached the top of the stairway. It opened out into a short hallway, with four doors leading off it. Jon pressed his ear to the first door. No sound behind it, though he no longer trusted that to mean anything significant. He dropped to the floor to peer through the space beneath. He saw a clean tiled floor and nothing else. One of his vertebrae cracked. He grimaced.

Martin reached a hand down to him. He took it, clasping the other man’s sturdy fingers, and let himself be hauled back to his feet. Cautiously, Martin took hold of the doorknob and turned it.

The door opened onto a small kitchenette. It looked like the room had once been a midsized office or storage room, but a small gas stove had been added, along with a sink. Any other appliances had been cleared out along with the store’s merchandise.

Jon scanned the ceiling and saw nothing out of the ordinary. Across the hall, he listened at the door again. Martin crouched down to check beneath. “Looks empty,” he said, grabbing hold of the doorknob to stand.

Inside was a stripped bedroom. The room’s dimensions were exactly the same as the first. A single shuttered window sat in the far wall. The mattress and sheets were gone, as was any other furniture, but the skeleton of the bedframe remained.

“Two down,” Martin murmured, flashing Jon a soft smile.

With a nod, Jon stepped back out onto the landing and headed for the end of the hall. Martin’s hand landed on his shoulder.

“Look at that,” the other man whispered, pointing at the ceiling behind them.

Jon whirled around, heart already racing at the memory of a ceiling draped in web. A simple wood panel stood out from the rest of the ceiling. An attic space above them. He groaned. “That’s definitely it, isn’t it?”

“Only one way to find out.” Martin reached up to push the panel out of the way. Jon took a few generous steps back.

The attic beyond was dark. Nothing rushed out of the shadows to attack them, so Jon shone his flashlight into the space. Martin stretched up onto his toes to look around inside. Jon felt very small beside him, but found he didn’t much mind. Anything coming out of the doors at the end of the hall would have to go through Martin in order to kill and eat them. He imagined that hypothetical attacker would probably feel quite small as well.

“Not much up here,” Martin decreed. “But there’s a ladder.” He tugged the bottom rung, letting the ladder telescope over the edge and down to meet the faded carpet.

“Why don’t we save the attic for last? I don’t fancy being trapped up there.”

“Too right.” Leaving the attic open and accessible, they headed down the hall to the last two doors. They repeated their little ritual with the one on the left and made their way inside. It was a cramped bathroom. The sink, tub and showerhead were intact, though covered in mildew and varying blankets of rust.

Jon looked at the showerhead, marred by who knows how many lonely days of dripping water before the utility company hit its kill switch, and shuddered. “Excellent. Last room, then?”

“And then the attic,” Martin agreed, already positioning himself by the door. “I’ll just take a peek.” He dropped down to one knee. As he moved, his shoulder knocked against the door, shaking it slightly on its hinges. Something—many little somethings—clattered behind the door. Martin jumped back.

Jon was already backing down the hallway. “Right—okay—so that’s—then we’ll just—” He spotted the stairway and froze.

Spiders dropped from the cracks in the ceiling, all groping legs and bulbous abdomens. They crisscrossed the top of the stairwell, weaving a communal web which other spiders clung to, appearing from beneath the doorways of rooms they had already checked.

Nausea rose up in Jon’s stomach. This wasn’t fair at all. They’d been so careful. They checked everywhere, conscious of the danger they were facing. Why was everything falling apart so quickly? Terror rooted him to the spot again, so he tried desperately to work his mouth, to warn Martin of what was happening.

“Go away.” The voice that spoke from behind the door was thick and raspy, lacy around the edges with an insectile chirp.

“We’re going!” Martin responded, scrambling to his feet. “We’re leaving right now!”

Spiders swarmed from beneath the door. Martin crushed a few unlucky arachnids under the soles of his shoes as he sprinted down the hallway toward Jon.

“Go away!” the voice repeated, roaring this time, dark shapes budding from the carpet under their feet. 

Martin collided with Jon. “What are you—” he panted, eyes flicking from Jon to the stairwell. It was blocked by a thick curtain of spiders. Brown, black, and faded yellow bodies crawled across each other, fat abdomens layered with spindly legs, all scrabbling together to form a wall of silk. “Oh, god. What do we do now?”

The door at the end of the hall flew open.

“Up!” Jon screamed, hands grasping for the rungs of the ladder. He flew into the attic with panic fueling each beat of his heart. “Come on, come on!”

Martin followed without question, clambering up after Jon. They pulled the ladder up into the crawlspace after him, smashing the few spiders that managed to reach the bottom rung with reckless fists.

“We’ve got to cover the opening,” Martin hissed, spinning in useless circles to observe the space.

Through the open square hatch, Jon spotted a single outstretched leg. Thick, dark, and chitin-plated, it seemed to stretch out toward him, inviting him back down. He slammed the wooden hatch shut and cast around for something to block the opening. His heart hammered a staccato rhythm in his chest.

Martin tore off his jumper and spread it over the hatch, blocking off the edges through which creatures might come crawling. “More cloth,” he ordered, “and something to weigh it down.”

Jon ripped the dust sheet off the window, scattering the thumbtacks used to pin it up. He lay the fabric over Martin’s jumper and held it down with the weight of his knees. He tore through his bag for the canister of bug spray. Finding it, he depressed the release and soaked the edges of the flimsy fabric, filling the attic with the acrid chemical tang.

Martin dragged a chair over from the corner and set it on top of the hatch, working around Jon’s outstretched limbs as he scrambled out of the way. He threw himself into the chair, planting his feet squarely on the wooden hatch below. “Grab the boxes under the window! Just hand them to me.”

Frantic, Jon pawed through the boxes, searching for anything heavy. He ran them back to Martin one at a time, weighting the other man’s lap. Something heavy slammed into the hatch below them. Martin’s feet slammed back, kicking down into the wood.

“Go away,” the voice snarled, almost overtaken by clicking and chittering and scuttling. “Go away. Go away!”

“Let us leave!” Jon wailed in response. “We don’t want to be here! We’ll go away!”

Martin reached out a hand. “Get on here,” he whispered. “I don’t think I’m heavy enough.”

Jon darted to his side. With his feet planted on the edge of the trapdoor, there was nowhere for the rest of him to go. He settled one arm on the back of the chair, body half-draped over Martin’s, the other hand resting on his shoulder.

Another thump from below. Jon felt the impact run up his legs.

“Why are you here?” whatever was below them shrieked.

“We’re looking for Calvin Tang,” Martin replied, voice shaking. “We’re just trying to find Calvin.”

There was silence.

“Martin,” Jon whispered, clutching his shoulder, “I’m sorry. I knew something like this would happen and I asked you to come anyway. This was so, so stupid, I honestly can’t believe—”

“Jon!” Martin hissed back. “I wouldn’t have let you go alone. It’s fine. We’re not dead yet.”

“Yet.”

“He is gone,” finally came the response from below. “You cannot find him.”

Jon cleared his throat. Tears were budding in his eyes, bleeding down his face to throw themselves off the tip of his nose. “Fine. Then just go back into your room and we’ll leave you alone.”

Another slamming impact. “He is gone. You cannot.”

“Shit,” Martin growled, trying to press himself harder into the shaking wood. “Typical.”

Jon couldn’t help his snort of manic laughter. “Isn’t it just, these days? Regret tagging along yet?”

Martin turned his head. They were suddenly very close, eye to eye, Martin’s lips thin and eyebrows knotted with worry. “No. Are you okay?”

“I’ve been better. No spiders through yet, so I suppose we’re doing relatively well.” Another crash sounded from below them. Jon grimaced. “What happened to Calvin?” he called down through the floor, hoping to distract the creature for a moment and regain his bearings.

“He is gone,” the monster repeated.

“Tell us what happened!”

A low growl. Something sharp scratched along the trapdoor’s wooden frame. “He was weak. He was always weak. From egg to web, he never had the strength to defend himself. He could not catch prey.”

The voice still straddled the line between human and monster, but Jon tried to conjure up the focus he projected taking statements at the institute. If he could imagine himself as a researcher speaking to a frightened subject, maybe he would grasp enough distance from his own terror to come up with a plan.

“So you did something to make him stronger? You took him because he was weak?

“He was always hunted,” the creature below snarled, mandibles clicking. “Taking bruises to his weak human flesh and letting himself be caught in the webs of those who wished to drain things from him. They left him empty and alone. They were always in control. They twisted him, they trapped him, they decided how his life would play out—until he was dry, and they were done with him. They made him a husk suspended from cables. They were always better than him. Charles, his mother, the boys at school, their family scattered across the country. So many people each spinning their own web to catch him and bleed him.”

The longer the creature spoke, the quieter the cross-cut sounds of drumming feet and inhuman whine. The more it sounded like an angry young man speaking up into the ceiling. “He had nothing to give but his weak blood. Even in his veins there was weakness, plastic tubing and the sterile den of hospitals. All alone, bound up in his silk wrappings, too scared to move. When they let him out all the strings snapped. Calvin could not bear weight. He was too weak and too empty to be of use, even as prey.

“He retreated to a weak nest, crude and cold, where he spun his weak thread and made webs that would never last. Nothing was permanent. The world was a web, and Calvin Tang was a fly. A fruit fly. Not even a substantial meal. Just a scared insect drained empty and mummified. He opened up his parlor but never had the strength to draw the world in. He brushed close to his prey but could not muster up the will to bind them.

“At last, the others came for him. They found him in his parlor. When he was ready, they invited him in, promising to teach him how to spin his own webs. How to take control. He is gone, now, and I am left. I am in control. I spin my webs as I desire, and I bind the flies whose lives I drain. I will sit in the center of my web and make a meal of the world. I will fill myself with new blood—strong blood—and sustain myself with it.”

Calvin let out a low chuckle. His voice was impossible to place, somewhere between the young man Jon could imagine sharing biscuits with a neighbor and the monstrous creature who had drained Charles Blanken of blood and left him desiccated in his own dark bedroom. “Your blood will be next.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to shove some fluff into this chapter, but for now, we're mostly back on the arachnid express! I just joined The Magnus Writers discord, so kudos to their word sprint bot for sponsoring this chapter ^-^ and massive, massive thanks to those of you leaving such sweet comments on the last few chapters. It absolutely makes my day to log in and see your feedback-- I literally read some of them to my friends because I'm intolerable like that. 
> 
> Huge and special thanks to humble_bumblebee for their personal feedback, Isssmaut for their super sweet takes (and for prompting the Tim/Sasha check-in), and Cutiepie120048 for their academic support <3 As always, if you left a comment, especially if you're one of the gang of repeat commenters who owns a 3% share in my heart, just imagine me close to tears and (if you like hugs) hugging you every time I read them. If not, imagine me giving you *the* crispest high five of your life (or take both-- you deserve them!).


	14. Exterminators

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin call for help.
> 
> !!! SPOILER ALERT !!!  
> .  
> .  
> Summary for those avoiding content warnings: Thinking they're about to die, Martin asks Jon out. He agrees. Martin asks for a kiss, but Jon responds that he doesn't want their first to be their last, and manages to get a call through to Yukti. Yukti's voice on the phone distracts Calvin while they escape. Jon then sets the storefront on fire. They call the ECDC and are picked up by Tim and Sasha. Everyone heads back to Jon's flat.  
> .  
> .  
> !!! SPOILERS OVER !!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing too horrifying this chapter. The stressful section is the first part of the chapter, running to "Move into the street,” Jon panted..." If you want to just avoid the nastier body horror bit, consider skipping from "Jon dialed the number again as the hatch flew up" to Jon nodded. “I think that would be—” It's all pretty plot-relevant today! Content Warnings for this chapter below:
> 
> !!!SPOILER ALERT!!!  
> spiders  
> mild inhuman body horror  
> fear of death  
> !!!SPOILERS OVER!!!

“You don’t want to eat us!” Martin cried, clinging desperately to the edges of his chair. “We came to help you, all right? Just let us leave!”

The pounding returned, heavier and more regular than before.

“Well,” Jon croaked, “at least we know the whole story.”

Martin looked at Jon. His eyes were bright with a sheen of tears, his face flushed by panting breaths. He was dragging a hand through his hair, leaving it stuck up at jagged angles. He was so, so beautiful, and if he was the last thing Martin saw before being eaten by a giant spider, he was certain there were worse things in the world. On the other hand, being eaten by a giant spider would mean the investigation never ended.

“Oh, bugger. Listen, can I ask you something? I’ll be quick.”

The trapdoor lifted up by a few centimeters, jolting Jon and Martin into the air. Cloth billowed. Jon dropped down into Martin, his arm around the other man’s neck preventing him from losing his balance and crashing to the floor. “Christ! Yes, of course. Take whatever time we’ve got left.”

Martin nodded. He swallowed. “Well, I was planning to do this once we were out of here. You know, like, once the investigation was over, and I’d gone back to my flat, and—well—I don’t know, life was a bit more normal? As normal as it ever is for us these days?”

“Right. Don’t suppose that’s likely to happen now.” Jon braced himself against the chair to weather another blow to the door beneath them.

There was a crunch that time, though Martin wasn’t sure if it was spiders, a massive leg, or the wood of the door itself splitting under the combined pressure of their weight and the onslaught of what had once been Calvin Tang.

“Come on,” he said, leaning slightly into the close warmth of Jon’s chest, trying to keep a tremble out of his voice. “Don’t be so pessimistic. I haven’t even used my imminent-death call to Sasha yet!”

“Martin, we are currently under siege by a spider man and his tiny arachnid army. He is likely going to wrap us in silk and drain our vital fluids. There is no escape. Even the window, if we managed to break it, would lead us to more than a two-story drop." Jon heaved in a breath, tears dripping onto his cheeks even as he bared his teeth in a forced smile. "I’m not keen to test my climbing skills against his.”

“Yeah, well, all right. Assuming we’re both going to die—though, seriously, I was planning to ask anyway—”

Martin sighed again. He couldn’t get over what a terrible background it was for a confession. As Calvin Tang beat ruthlessly at the door beneath his feet, he worked his jaw and drummed his fingers on the side of the chair. Jon waited in almost stunned silence. Martin couldn’t blame him. After all, they were about to be killed and eaten. It must be difficult to fathom something more difficult to face than their impending conversion into blood bags.

Finally, Martin cleared his throat. “I, uh—so I was just thinking—I mean, I was wondering—listen, Jon, would you like to go out some time?”

“What?”

“Go out. With me.” He swallowed again, avoiding eye contact. “You know, like, on a date?”

Jon gaped at him, half-laughing his way toward a sob. “Are you serious, Martin? Right now? Where would we even go?”

“In general! Look, I just need a yes or a no.”

“What? I mean—but we’re—” Jon looked into Martin’s eyes. Though the panic raging in them didn’t disappear, Martin thought he saw Jon’s gaze soften along with the set of his shoulders. “Yes. Yes, absolutely. Um. If we make it out of here, I suppose.”

Even the shadow of impending doom couldn’t blot out the blush shining on Martin’s cheeks. “O-oh! I—well, okay, now I really don’t want to die. Not that I was keen on it before, but—I just—Jon, look, you absolutely don’t have to say yes, but I’ve got a bit of an investigative follow-up. Can I—”

The floor jolted, dumping the boxes off Martin’s lap and sliding the chair half-off the trapdoor. “Can I kiss you?” he finished in a rush, gripping tight to the chair’s seat and staring up at Jon, trying to maneuver the chair back into place over the door.

“Yes,” Jon croaked, “but— not right now. I’d prefer not to have our first kiss be our last.” He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and dialed a number.

Martin wondered if it was Tim, or Sasha, or the ECDC, but his mind wasn’t really focused on any of those options. _Yes_! Jon said yes! Yes to a date with him, yes to a hypothetical future kiss. God. His brain was fried. Warmth pooled in his chest even as the hammering on the trapdoor beneath him started up again.

Jon’s frantic fingers dialed and hung up again and again. He looked panicked, but Martin had faith in him. Jon would get them out of it. And if he didn’t? Martin would simply have the wrestle Calvin Tang barehanded into submission. With the burst of glowing energy flowing through him in that moment, he thought he might even live through it.

Jon dialed the number once more as the hatch flew up. Martin’s chair toppled back, sending him flying to the floor. Diving to the side, Jon set the phone on speaker mode, line ringing like an alarm.

A massive shape burst through the trapdoor. Eight long legs jammed themselves into the cramped attic, supporting a sleek black body and a head that would have been human if not for the multitude of glistening eyes. Calvin opened his mouth and revealed canines sprouted into mandibles. He was a shiny wreck of a human being, exoskeleton warped under its own unnatural shape. Martin opened his mouth to scream but found he couldn't get enough air into his lungs.

“Hello, is this the archivist?” asked Maribel Santos, picking up the phone.

Martin stared at Jon, open-mouthed, trying to process the horror of the twisted body between them.

“What?” Yukti’s voice drew closer to the speaker. “Did Jon call me? Here, give it over. I want to talk to him.”

Calvin took a few clattering steps across the room, eight limbs moving in tandem, all of his dark eyes fixed on Jon. Martin got to his feet and wrapped his hands around the legs of the chair. If Calvin went for Jon first, he would have an opening to tackle from behind. If he changed tracks and went for Martin, Martin would have a shield, hopefully enough to keep him distracted so Jon could flee down the hatch. His mandibles clicked in hungry anticipation.

“Yukti!” Jon hissed. “We found him! I need you to talk!”

“What?” The excitement in her voice didn’t match the room’s panicked atmosphere. “You mean—did you guys—at the address? Calvin? Hey, Calvin, buddy, are you there?”

The hulking beast scuttled closer to Jon. He let out a low whine, eyes locked on Calvin’s branching armored thorax. Martin raised the chair, arms shaking.

“Yukti?” Calvin growled, eight eyes scanning Jon’s body up and down.

Martin held his breath as Jon cupped the mobile to his ear and whispered something. Then, in one swift movement, he ducked down to the floor and sent the phone spinning across the attic floor. Calvin turned to follow it.

“It’s me!” Yukti crowed on the other end of the line. “Oh my god, Calvin! It’s been so long since I heard from you! Where have you been? Are you okay?”

Each of his sprawling legs took a few tentative steps toward her voice. The trapdoor was clear. Tiptoeing in a way that would have been funny if not for the tears still trickling down his cheeks, Jon made his way over to Martin and flapped his hands at the trapdoor.

“Yukti. Did you send them?” Calvin asked, bending down to examine Jon’s mobile, abdomen raising into the air.

She let out what might have been a sob of relief. “Yes! You sent me an address, I thought you needed help! I only sent them because I care about you. Because I miss you. Can you just talk to me, Cal? What happened? Why haven’t you been here?”

Martin picked his way down the ladder first, knocking stray spiders off the rungs to clear the way for Jon. The wave of arachnids had apparently dissipated once Calvin breached the attic, but they still covered the stairwell in scattered patches. He could hear Calvin’s rough voice speaking above as Jon descended. He didn’t care what the creature was saying.

At the bottom of the ladder, Jon stopped to pull something from his bag. Martin grabbed his free hand. “Can we run yet?” he asked, grip firm and practical.

Jon nodded. “I think that would be—”

Martin was already sprinting, dragging Jon along by the arm just like he had in Charles Blanken’s house. Most of the spiders took no notice of their escape. They were busily filing up the ladder into the attic. Martin made sure he hit their web blockade first. Though he flailed wildly with his free arm, sheets of web still clung to his body and tangled in his hair.

They hurtled down the stairs, slipping every few steps, holding each other steady. It was only once they reached the bottom that Martin realized Jon was leaving a trail of something from the bottle clutched in his hand. They pushed through the front doors.

“Move into the street,” Jon panted, pulling a lighter from the front pocket of his bag.

Martin gaped at him. “Was that _gasoline_ you were spilling everywhere? Jon, why did you bring gasoline? Did you know this was going to happen?”

“No! I—of course—look, we can talk about this later. I don’t know how long she’ll keep him distracted.” Jon touched the lighter’s flame to his trail of fuel. A ribbon of fire licked up from the floor, wavering in the wind as Jon slammed the glass door shut on it.

A vice tightened around Martin’s chest. He didn’t know why, when Calvin Tang had just tried to murder the both of them, when he knew there were other victims already and would be more, but the flames dancing up the stairs still sent hot stripes of nausea flickering in time through his stomach.

“So we’re just, what, leaving him to burn in there? With Yukti on the line?”

“Well—yes.” Jon drew in a shuddering breath. “But I told her. On the phone. I told her if she hears crashing, or—or screaming, she should hang up.”

Martin blinked a few times, face twisting in disgust as smoke filled the bottom floor. “Cor. So we’re really doing it.”

“If you’ve got a better idea, now’s the time for it.” Jon put his hands on his hips and looked up at Martin. “I’ll do whatever you like.”

Martin pursed his lips and fought down a dusting of blush at the phrasing. “R-right. Uh—no, no better plan. I’m sorry, Jon, I don’t mean to second guess you. I really do think Calvin is a monster. I just—is it stupid to say I kind of feel bad for all those spiders?”

Jon shook his head in disbelief. “Martin. I—I wouldn’t say it’s _stupid_. But you can’t seriously expect me to agree. Anyway, what _is_ the plan?”

“Run, I guess?”

A slow smile dawned across Jon’s face. “Yes. Right. We should, uh, call the ECDC first. Probably.”

“I’ll call.” Martin dug his phone out of his pocket. In the reflective black screen he could see exactly how dopey his own smile looked.

* * *

Jon huddled deeper into Martin’s jumper. The other man had spent the past few minutes determinedly picking it free of spider silk. The residual heat of Martin's body wrapped him in a cocoon of temporary comfort. It couldn’t calm the frantic pounding in his chest or the relentless buzzing in his ears, but the soft familiar texture of the yarn was grounding all the same.

“I knit that myself, you know,” Martin said, checking his phone for updates from Tim and Sasha. He snorted. “Tim says he’s excited to be our getaway driver.”

He mustered a weak smile for Martin. He couldn’t understand why he was so damnably tired. The spiders barely touched him, Calvin never had a chance to harm them, and the Tang investigation was over. Martin even had the brilliant idea of calling Tim for a ride so Jon wouldn’t have to brave the bustle and chatter of the tube. Speaking of which, there was the matter of Martin, who—well—who had—who wanted—Jon would have to deal with that particular revelation later. Perhaps after a very long nap. And a strong cup of tea.

Martin’s hand rested softly on Jon’s back. “You holding up all right? Things got pretty intense in there. But we’re, uh, all through with it now, aren’t we?”

“Yes.” Jon ran his teeth over his bottom lip and rolled his shoulders, trying to release some of the tension threading his muscles into taut guitar strings. “Yes, we are. And I’ll be fine. Thank you, Martin. I—I don’t know what I would have done without you in there.”

Martin was so reliable. He was so solid and brave and understanding and gentle, and he made Jon’s heart squeeze in a way that should have been uncomfortable but was pleasant instead, and Jon was truly struggling to fathom why anyone so deeply _kind_ would look at him the way Martin was looking at him.

The horn blared as Tim and Sasha pulled up alongside the curb. Tim’s car, a well-maintained compact slathered in cheeky bumper stickers, coasted to a stop.

“Well, there’s our getaway driver.” Martin offered Jon a hand. With a strong tug, he pulled Jon to his feet, bracing him gently with the other palm as he stumbled on legs already half-asleep.

They bundled into the car.

“Hey, boss,” Tim said, “not to pry or anything, but would the clouds of smoke rising a couple blocks over have anything to do with your little expedition?”

Jon opened his mouth to try and explain the things they had seen in there. The way he’d just known that there was no bringing Calvin back, only a swift descent into a creature who lured its victims in any way it knew how and a series of unexplained disappearances. The terror that gripped his whole body in that attic room as he dialed Yukti’s number again and again. He probably didn’t need to explain to them all of the words he exchanged with Martin. That was rather more personal. Or was it all a bit too personal?

Martin put his hand on Jon’s knee and squeezed once. “Yeah, that was us. We showed up, looked around the place. Found a giant spider person hiding in the bedroom. Tried to run, but there were spiders everywhere. Got trapped in the attic. Escaped. Set the whole thing on fire behind us in a blaze of glory. Pretty standard work stuff, really.”

“Are you all right?” Sasha interrupted, twisting in her seat to look back at them. “Please tell me one of you called the ECDC.”

Jon gestured helplessly to Martin. He wanted to do his part in explaining what happened to them, but he was so tired, and his throat was still so thick with fear.

Martin’s phone rang as if on cue. He squinted down at it. “Uh, didn’t think they’d call back. Hello?” He listened into the phone for a moment, face slowly contorting into a grimace. “Ah. Everyone, it’s, uh, Elias. He’d—like to talk to you, Jon.”

What did Elias want with him now? And why on earth was he calling Martin’s phone to reach him? Did that mean Jon’s phone had already been consumed by the raging fire? Martin held the mobile out to him. He stared at the phone, eyes narrowed, trying to muster up the energy to do anything in response.

“I’m just going to put it on speaker.”

Tim shuddered as Elias’s voice filled the car.

“Well, hello there, Archivist and company. Am I to understand you’ve been doing some independent research on an institute case?”

“Yes,” Jon replied, voice flat.

“Excellent! I’m always delighted to see Institute employees taking such initiative. That said, a Ms. Yukti Mangal has been calling me incessantly at my work number to ask some follow-up questions. I don’t suppose you have any alternate modes of contact I could pass on to her? Unlike some of us, I am not currently on vacation.”

“Yes, right. She—she can just come over. To my flat. We’ll talk in person—tomorrow.”

“Excellent, I’ll give her your address. Well, congratulations on your experiences! I’ll leave you all to a swift recovery.”

They rode in tense silence for a while after the call dropped.

Finally, Tim made a retching noise in the back of his throat. “Well, I don’t know about you all, but that was probably the worst thing that’s happened to _me_ all day. Martin, care to tell us a bit more about the worst thing that’s happened to the two of you?”

As Martin launched back into his abridged explanation of the terrors they faced, Jon leaned his head back against the seat and closed his eyes. Immersed in the back-and-forth voices of Martin and Tim, he let himself slip into a drowsy half-dream, still unable to properly sleep. He vaguely overheard Martin giving Tim directions back to his flat.

Sasha threw her door open, startling him out of his fugue. “Get out, the lot of you. We’ll have tea and sandwiches all around even if I have to send Tim for groceries.”

Jon stumbled out of the car and lead the way up to his flat, fumbling through his backpack for the keys and jostling aside half-empty cans of bug spray. Once inside he collapsed on the still made-up pullout couch. Sasha and Tim bustled past him into the kitchen

* * *

Martin sat down on the edge of the bed, fingers tied up in knots, and looked at Jon. He knew the other man could hold his own. After all, he’d been the one who saved them from Tang, and the one who ended that spidery menace once and for all. He just looked so worn and fragile spread out across the cushions.

“Uh, Martin,” Jon began, voice nearly shaking with the effort of raising himself up off the pillows, “I don’t really know how to begin this, but—I want you to know—”

With a small shake of his head, Martin cut Jon off. “Look, Jon, I know what happened back there was—intense? Terrible? Nearly impossible to process? And you’re going to need some time to actually sit down and recover from it, whether you want to or not. We can talk after you’ve had a rest.”

 _You’re just putting off a rejection_ , sniped the nasty little voice at the back of his mind. _You’re the one who needs time to recover before you can stand the thought of hearing Jon take it back. He only agreed because he thought you were about to die, and even then he didn’t really want to be with you._

Cautiously, Jon reached out and lay his fingers over Martin’s hand where it clutched the bedspread. He smiled. “Yes, I think you’re right. Thank you, Martin. I appreciate it.”

The voice at the back of Martin’s mind combusted into gasoline-powered flames. It would no doubt be back later, perhaps accompanied by a few friends, but in the meantime he had more important things to worry about. Jon’s fingers were cool and soft on the back of his hand. He turned his palm upright, catching and intertwining their fingers.

He couldn’t help thinking that their hands fit perfectly together, Jon’s slim palm cupped by Martin’s broad hand, his long fingers twining around Martin’s stubby ones. The touch anchored him into his body. Jon’s thumb swiped back and forth over his in a gentle, rhythmic motion. Martin swallowed down a shriek of excitement and chose instead to squeeze the other man’s hand in his and give him the kind of blindingly lovestruck smile he’d been hiding for weeks.

“Martin!” Sasha called from the kitchen. “Where does he keep his tea?”

“Be right there!” He brought his other hand around to cup Jon’s knuckles, holding his hand like fresh water liable to drip out and return to the river’s flow. “We’ll talk later, right?”

Slowly, Jon raised their linked hands. Folding his own hand around it, he pressed Martin’s palm to his cheek, leaning into the soft touch. He let out a very long breath. His body sagged into the couch, eyes fluttering shut.

Martin watched in red-cheeked awe, fingers tingling against Jon’s relaxed face. He could feel the slight growth of stubble and the movement of Jon’s muscles as he smiled.

“Right,” Jon replied, letting Martin’s hand go.

He swallowed. “R-right! I… I’ll bring you some tea.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another week, another fraught encounter with off-brand Spiderman!! Thanks for all the well-wishes, everyone, midterms went great (and now I'm headed right into finals-- let's go quarter system). As always, I *so* appreciate your comments; they keep me going on all my writing projects even during weeks like these when I have a thousand things to balance. 
> 
> Special thanks to ladyalys for their super kind and gorgeously detailed review and shadowsofLilies for wanting to recommend this mess around!! As always, to my repeat commenters: *Dolly Parton's "I Will Always Love You" plays in the background* Thank you for sticking with this fic! We're headed into the last few plot points, and it's been amazing to have an ongoing project get so much sweet feedback from you all. 
> 
> I'm starting to think about what I want to write after this fic ends (though I'll probably take a break first)-- coffee shop/bookshop AU? Podcaster AU? Just relentless fluff and nothing else? More original horror? More spiders, for some reason? If there's stuff you're interested in reading more of from me, I hope you'll let me know in the comments ^-^


	15. Fumigated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin have guests.
> 
> Summary for those avoiding Content Warnings:
> 
> !!!SPOILER ALERT!!!  
> .  
> .  
> Tim and Sasha come over for dinner. Once they leave, Martin and Jon try to clarify their relationship, but are interrupted by the arrival of Yukti. She gives one last statement to Jon about her last call with Calvin, during which he retained their humanity and they expressed their gratitude and love for each other. At some point, the floor collapsed, but Yukti continued talking until the line went dead. She thanks Jon and leaves the apartment. Worried he won't be able to sleep due to guilt and residual fear, Jon asks Martin to share the bed with him.  
> .  
> .  
> !!!SPOILERS END!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content Warnings for chapter below. Section to skip is: "Statement of Yukti Mangal regarding a phone call with Calvin Tang. Statement begins.” to "Statement ends.” Jon swallowed. “I… am so very, very sorry.”
> 
> !!!SPOILER ALERT!!!  
> .  
> .  
> death  
> fire  
> burning  
> .  
> .  
> !!!SPOILERS END!!!

Jon sprawled across the dining room table, letting out an unending sigh. “Tim, would you _please_ at the very least put your shirt on?”

“I’ve got an apron on! What, you don’t think the frills look good on me?”

“It’s unsafe. I don’t like you being in there without my supervision. If you won’t dress yourself properly, at least allow me to assist in the preparation of dinner!”

“Absolutely not,” Sasha responded, “shirt or no shirt, Tim hasn’t just been attacked by a giant man spider. You and Martin can wait in the living room and drink your tea. Food will be ready soon enough, we promise.”

Martin couldn’t help smiling as Jon pillowed his chin on his hands in a clear pout. He couldn’t be convinced to lie down for a nap while Tim was “Mucking about in my kitchen with reckless abandon,” but he was willing to wait at the table with Martin. Strands of black and greying hair haloed around his head in the evening light pouring through the window. From the kitchen came the muffled hiss of oil and a gentle clatter of pots; the radio alternated between breathy Spanish love songs and a gentle report on incoming drizzly weather.

Martin would have to get knitting again to prepare for the incoming cold front. Maybe Jon could use a nice warm pair of socks. Better yet, a jumper. Though perhaps that ought to wait for a time when the status of their relationship was a bit less fraught. He would hate for whatever they had to fall prey to the sweater curse.

He had to look away to hide the blush on his cheeks and the warring expressions flitting across his face. It was way too early to think of any sort of relationship between him and Jon! Which made it inconvenient that it was all he could think about.

Yes, the other man agreed to go on a date with Martin. Yes, he also expressed interest in kissing Martin. Yes, he further went on to hold Martin’s hand, unprompted and while totally conscious. That all had to mean something! It just didn’t mean that Jon wanted to commit to anything just yet. Unless he did?

His storm of thoughts was interrupted by Jon letting out a quiet yawn.

“Bit tired, then?”

“Oh, uh—” Jon blinked owlishly across the table. “Yes, I suppose so. My apologies. As I’m sure you’re aware, it’s been quite a long day.”

“Don’t I know it. Are you feeling alright?”

Jon shrugged. “Define ‘alright’. Things could be much worse. I am grateful that we emerged from the experience unscathed and that the investigation has come to an end. And—well, in a way, I suppose I am grateful that doing this research has… brought us closer.”

With significant effort, Martin managed to suppress a gleeful shriek.

“Still, obviously, it was an experience I would rather not have had. And one I hope to forget quickly. I have never been very good with spiders.”

“Yeah, I noticed. Sorry, I don’t mean that to sound… I don’t know, demeaning, or anything? It’s a totally normal fear.”

“Thank you, Martin, I’m well aware. In fact, I had a rather formative negative experience with them. As a child. It was… well, I suppose _you_ would probably say it was a bit spooky.”

Martin smirked. “What, spookier than the giant spider that just tried to eat us?”

Though Jon swallowed hard, throat bobbing, he didn’t say anything in response.

“Oh. Oh, okay, wow.” Martin pursed his lips, unsure what to say. He reached a hand across the table.

In the moment it took for Jon’s eyes to rest on it, he immediately regretted reaching out at all. It was such a cheesy move. Besides, it was probably a bit too forward. Jon was trying to tell him about some terrible childhood experience and there Martin was trying to get a hand-hold out of it.

Slowly, Jon stretched out his own hand to clasp Martin’s.

Martin gave a cautious squeeze, trying not to get lost in the soft press of Jon’s palm on his, before letting go and withdrawing his arm. “I’m sorry. That sounds… really traumatic. I can’t imagine having to go through everything that’s just happened already having had bad experiences with spiders. I mean, I’ve always sort of liked spiders, and this was… yeah. This was bad.”

“Are _you_ all right, Martin? I regret that, throughout this investigation, the duty of keeping me in the moment has often fallen to you. And I—I thought—I want to apologize. Again. For dragging you into all of this. Even if—perhaps you don’t want to hear this, but I am sorry. That this happened at all.”

Martin wanted to respond with some outpouring of compassionate support, but it was at that moment that a pair of pot lids clanged in the kitchen.

“Dinner! Is! Served!” Tim bellowed, slamming his pot lids together a few times for emphasis.

He settled on a reassuring smile. “I’m sorry this happened too, Jon. But it wasn’t your fault or mine. And now we’re past it.”

Tim and Sasha paraded into the living room. Tim carried a massive pot of pasta, Sasha a vat of cream sauce, and on a tray balanced between Tim’s arms lay a row of toasted slices of garlic break.

“Tomato sauce in the kitchen,” Tim declared, “for those who prefer their meals tomato-y rather than luscious and decadent.”

Nobody did. The four of them tucked into the meal with gusto, Tim making a point of serving Martin first: “For the on-the-job trauma.”

They settled into a comfortable flow of chatter as Tim and Sasha discussed the movies they’d been watching at Tim’s flat. Martin chimed in a few times with comments on the film he and Jon had seen—or what little he remembered of it before there was nothing but the fuzzy memory of Jon’s comfortable shoulder—but for the most part he was content to let them carry on a friendly background noise.

He glanced at Jon throughout dinner and was relieved to see him looking closer to relaxed. Not that he’d ever seen Jon fully relaxed unless the other man was sleeping. A soft smile occasionally found its way onto Jon’s face. He picked his way through a serving of pasta and a slice of garlic bread.

By the time he drained the last drops of his cup of tea, Martin found himself close to nodding off. The warm room and the steady chatter of his friends was soothing. He desperately needed to be soothed.

After dinner, Tim and Sasha insisted on clearing the table. They let Jon follow them into the kitchen to oversee dishwashing. Martin half-expected him to spring back to life and dictate where every spoon be slotted into place, but instead he seemed content to just rest on the counter and watch Tim and Sasha passing plates back and forth. Martin put the kettle back on just for something to do.

“Well,” Sasha said, sliding the last dry plate into a cabinet, “we should probably get going. I thought you two might need a bit of a cooldown from the day you’ve had, but I also think you could both use a long rest. Get some sleep tonight and please, _please_ try and stay away from work for a few days, alright? I’ll check in with Elias for you. I’m sure he’ll understand.”

“Better not be in earshot of me,” Tim mumbled, helping himself to another slice of garlic bread before passing the last one to Martin. He dunked the empty platter into the sink and gave it a quick scrub, setting it on the rack to airdry.

“Thank you both,” Jon murmured. “That was… quite nice.”

“’Course, boss. We’re always happy to help out. And, hey, for what it’s worth, I’m glad you made it out of there in one piece. Next time, follow Martin’s lead and let us know before you do anything too stupid.”

Martin walked Tim and Sasha to the door as Jon hovered by the kitchen. “Thank you so much for the ride and for coming over. I really, really appreciate everything you all have done for me these past few weeks.”

Sasha gave him a hug. After a moment of deliberation, she strode back across the room and opened her arms in front of Jon. He stepped forward. They shared a quick hug, cautiously pressing their arms around each other before pulling away.

Tim darted after Sasha and swept Jon up in a bearhug. “No more near-death experiences this week, got it?

“Yes,” Jon said into Tim’s shoulder. “Not if I can help it.”

The two of them filed out, Tim stopping on the way to wrap an arm around Martin’s shoulders. “Staying over again, I see,” he murmured conspiratorially. “Go get him, Mart-o.” Before Martin could wipe the shock off his face and argue, the door was closed.

Jon and Martin stared at each other.

“So,” Jon said.

“Um. So.”

“You’re, ah, staying over again, I take it?"

Martin shifted in place. “Yeah, if you’ll have me. O-or I can head back to my place! Either is fine.”

“No, no, it’s—I would prefer to have you here, if that’s alright. But we—perhaps we should talk first. About… ah….”

“About the investigation?” Martin ventured, just in case.

“Hah. No. About us?”

He gulped. “Ah, yeah. You’re right. We should… have a talk. Um. Do you want to, I don’t know, sit down?”

Jon blinked. “Oh, well. I didn’t… I wasn’t anticipating a very serious talk. Though, I mean—I’m sorry.”

Martin was moments from throwing himself headlong out the window to escape the torture of anticipation. What did that _mean_? He wasn’t expecting anything serious meaning he thought they’d both just assume Martin was joking? Or meaning he was totally on board and thought they’d just have a bit of a think about where to go for dinner? But then why was he sorry?

He took a deep breath. There was no use dancing around things and getting himself worked up. “No, sorry. You go ahead.”

“Right.” Jon cleared his throat. “I, well, ah, just wanted to check—that is, to clarify, that you, erm—were asking me. On a date. In a romantic sense.”

After a second, Martin realized his mouth was hanging open slightly. He shut it. “I… in what sense did you think I might be asking you?”

Jon wrapped his arms around himself and rocked back and forth on the balls of his feet, looking everywhere but Martin. “In a friendly sense?”

“And when I asked to kiss you…?”

“Oh—I don’t know—in the sense of ‘we’re about to die right now, so we might as well’?”

Martin swallowed again. “Well, is that how you feel about it? I mean, is that why you said yes?”

Though his arms stayed clenched around his middle, Jon squared his shoulders. “No. No, I said yes because I would like to go on a date with you. Romantically. And… kiss you. Also romantically.”

“Okay, great.” Martin was well aware of how wide his grin must be stretching. He didn’t much care. “Glad we’ve got that sorted.”

Jon’s answering smile was one of the most beautiful expressions Martin could remember seeing on another human’s face. It lit up his eyes with flecks of golden light and filled itself into the crinkles at the edges of Jon’s mouth. He looked open and hopeful and just a tad besotted, a perfect mirror for all of the giddiness Martin was sure must be so clear on his own face.

A knock came on the door.

Jon levelled it with a glare.

“I’ll get it,” Martin blurted, grin fixed on his face as he crossed the room to swing the door open.

In the hall stood a familiar woman. Her eyes were bloodshot red and still damp. She looked at Martin, arms crossed tight over her chest, and sniffled. “Hey. Sims lives here, right? Bouchard gave me the address.”

* * *

Jon watched in silent horror as Martin stepped aside and gestured to Yukti.

She raised her hand to wave at him. “Got your address from your boss. Figured I’d come by to give one last statement.” Her voice was hoarse. She watched him with dull eyes as he wrung his hands.

“Ah. Yes. Well, this is certainly the right address. But, ah, we weren’t exactly expecting you until tomorrow. At the earliest.”

Yukti’s face didn’t fall so much as settle. Her expression schooled itself into detachment, mouth twisting into a neutral line and eyes glancing off toward the ceiling. “Got it. Sorry to intrude. I’ll be back tomorrow, then, if that works for you. I wouldn’t have come over if I’d known you weren’t expecting me.”

Jon’s chest bunched up into a ball of crumpled paper plans. What little energy he’d managed to work up over dinner for a talk with Martin was gone, but he still had the force of desperate will that got him through days at school or work when he would rather just collapse on the linoleum. “No, of course not. Please come in, Yukti. I’m sure you have some questions. It’s only fair. We have you to thank for our continued safety, after all.”

She stepped over the threshold and made her way to the table. “Thanks. I was glad to hear you two made it out okay. I felt like, since I was the one who sent you over there, if things went wrong it was going to be my fault, you know? Though I guess things did go pretty wrong. Maybe I should have expected that.”

The kettle whistled cheerily from the kitchen. “I’ll just go check on that,” Martin offered, excusing himself from the room.

Jon dug the tape recorder from the pocket of his coat hanging by the door and took a seat across from Yukti. To his surprise, the recorder was already running. Jon wondered how much of their encounter was unwittingly recorded.

She unwound her scarf and folded it in her lap, mouth still pressed into a worn line.

“Statement of Yukti Mangal, concerning her final encounter with the entity known as Calvin Tsang.”

With a sharp breath in through her nose, Yukti’s thin mouth turned into a frown. “Please don’t talk about him that way. That—distant way, like he wasn’t—wasn’t a person at all, underneath.”

Jon cleared his throat. “My apologies. Statement of Yukti Mangal regarding a phone call with Calvin Tang. Statement begins.”

Yukti drew in a shaky breath. She leaned forward, bracing her elbows against the edge of the table. “There isn’t much to tell, in the end. You called. Mari picked up. I guessed who it was right away, and I thought you might be calling to ask some question about the address or to tell me you couldn’t go after all. I never expected you too check it out so soon. Mari handed me the phone. You told me you’d found him—that you’d found Calvin—and I was so excited. I didn’t think that was still a possibility, you know? I guess part of me just wrote him off as dead.

“He sounded funny, even over the phone. All raspy and sick, just like those last few times we tried to visit him. But it was still his voice. And he recognized mine; he knew me right away. And I heard what you told me. I knew something terrible must be happening. But I was just so happy to hear his voice again, to know he was okay, that we—that I could say something to him. Things I didn’t get to say when I thought he was just sick and I’d see him again in a couple weeks.

“But he wasn’t saying anything. Just listening. A-and I didn’t know how to talk to him. How to get it all out, or what to even talk about. So I just started telling him how much I missed him. And it got me started on, on everything we’d done together, and all the memories I had built up of him. Stupid things. Laughing at inside jokes in the halls, baking together, this run of movie nights we planned. I was bringing up little moments I didn’t even know I remembered. And I just couldn’t stop talking. I started telling him how sorry I was that I couldn’t help. That I didn’t see what was happening to him when things got bad.

"I started crying partway through. Then I was sobbing, and Mari kept trying to help me, but I wouldn’t move away from the phone.

“Finally, he started talking back. He told me… he told me he was sorry. Sorry for everything. For things he’s done, but also things he didn’t do. He said he wished he had listened to me from the beginning. And gone to me for help. And spent more time with me. He… told me how much I meant to him. And that he hoped I would be happy. It was hard for him, I could tell. The words didn't want to come out right. But he fought through.”

Yukti broke off into a choked sob. Jon watched, helpless, as she brought her scarf up to soak up her tears. “I’m sorry. It’s so stupid to retell it all, it sounds like some bad high school breakup. In the moment I really felt like a piece of my heart was getting ripped out of my chest.

“The rest of the spiders ran away near the end, I think. When the flames were getting closer. He started to sound more like the old Calvin. We just started sharing memories, and telling each other things about ourselves, and shooting the shit about whatever I had playing on the telly in the other room. It felt like what we could have had, you know? If things were different. And all the while I could hear crashing beams and crackling flames on his end of the line.

“Right at the end, he asked me if I’d stay with him. Talk him through it. He said he wanted to hold onto me until there was nothing else left. I got back into proper sobbing, at that point. But I stayed. And I listened. And I talked him through it. Mari had to leave the room and I don’t blame her. I was a right mess. But he stayed calm through it all. Just kept telling me how much it meant for me to be there, and for him to hear my voice again. His voice got scratchy again, I'm not sure when, but I think it was just from the smoke.

“I didn’t have to hear when it got to him, thank god. I was telling him about how much his friendship had meant to me when I was getting started, and how he changed my life for the better. I told him I was always going to remember him—remember him with love. The last thing he told me was 'Thank you'.

“There was a huge crash. I think the floor caved in. After that, he didn’t respond to anything I said. But I just kept talking. In case he could still hear me. I couldn’t— sorry—” she had to pause to take a few deep breaths. Tears gathered in her lashes and stained her cheeks. “I just didn’t want him to be alone. I talked and talked until the line went dead. Then I called the police.”

They sat in silence, both staring down at the wooden tabletop. Yukti sniffled.

“Statement ends.” Jon swallowed. “I… am so very, very sorry.”

Yukti was already shaking her head. “No. There’s—you couldn’t—no. Thank you. I’m glad I could be there for him. I know it’s better this way. He won’t be hurting people anymore, and that includes himself. I know.”

“It takes time to process these things.”

“Yeah, it does.” She wiped her face clean. “Wish it didn’t. But I’m alright. Mari’s been taking good care of me. We’ve been staying over at her flat, again, like you two. Nice to have someone close by to lean on.”

Jon pushed his chair back. “Can I, uh, get you anything?”

“No, just... letting me finish my story was enough. I’d best be leaving. Mari gave me a list of things to pick up from the greengrocer’s before they close.”

They awkwardly shuffled to the door.

“Well, I appreciate your assistance with the investigation. Including this follow-up. Again, in a very real sense, I think we both owe you our lives.”

“I sent you into the place, so let’s call it even.” She stuck out her hand. “Really, Sims. Thanks for all you did to hear me out and put this to rest. Don’t be a stranger at the Institute.”

Jon gripped her hand. Rather than shake, she pulled him in for a tight hug and clapped him on the back.

“R-right. I’ll, ah, do my best not to be.”

She gave him a rueful smile. “You’d better. And sorry about your phone.” With that, she opened the door and headed off into her own life.

Jon swung it shut behind her and leaned against the wood. He tried to swallow past the lump in his throat. There was just so _much_. Calvin’s death, the spiders, Martin’s confession, Yukti’s pain, a series of unexpected hugs. He didn’t know how to hold it all at once. He was just so tired.

Speaking of Martin, there was still no sign of the other man. Jon poked his head into the kitchen. He found Martin leaning over the counter, two mugs of tea steaming in front of him, dabbing at his face with a tea towel.

“Martin?”

“Ah!” Martin jumped. “Jon!” He turned, and Jon could see that his eyes were red.

“Yes. I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

“No, no, it’s fine. I could’ve just… I don’t know, plugged my ears. I wanted to hear it.”

“Right.” Jon wandered over and picked up one of the mugs, blowing away some of the steam pouring from its surface. “Martin?”

Martin took a sip from the other cup. “Yeah?”

“Do you think I made the wrong choice?”

“What? When?” Martin’s furrowed forehead wrinkled further into a frown. “Oh, you mean—Jon. With the fire?”

The tea hurt going down. “Yes. Did I—do you think there was something else we could have done?”

“Jon. No. Of course not. You heard Yukti, even she thought it was the right choice. Calvin was a monster. I don’t care how much it hurt her to admit that, he was a literal monster. He killed someone. He tried to kill us! It’s okay to feel strange or sad about it. Hell, I know I do. But you made the right choice. The only choice you could to keep people safe. Okay?”

Jon pressed his hands into his stomach, trying to fight down a surge of anxious nausea. “Yes. Right. Thank you, Martin.”

“Can I…?” Martin opened his arms.

For a moment, Jon held back, unsure if he could handle the sensation after such a loaded conversation. He decided he couldn’t know without trying and threw himself into Martin’s arms.

Instantly, he felt safe. The comforting pressure of Martin’s hands on his back kept him grounded. The larger man formed a protective shield around him, chin resting on Jon’s head, arms encircling him. He pressed his face into Martin’s broad chest and let warmth envelop him.

He yawned. “Should we—get back to that talk?”

Martin chuckled. “I’d say you ought to get off to bed. It’s been just about the longest week of… well, at this point, not of my life. Probably of the month. I’d say we both deserve some rest.”

Jon’s eyes flitted through the doorway toward the hall down which his bedroom lay. It was dark. He froze, suddenly struck by visions of lying awake in bed, hyper-vigilant for the slightest sensation of movement. Visions of the young Calvin Tang staring from Charles Blanken’s wall already pressed at the back of his mind. Human, loved, part of a family. Lian Tang was still alive somewhere. Would she ever find out what happened to her son? What, in the end, Jon did to him?

“Jon? Are you okay? I mean, you don’t have to head to bed just yet. I just think it might be a good time.”

“Yes. You’re right. It’s just… ah, I suppose I’m not exactly…” he swallowed. If Martin could ask for a kiss, he might as well just let his words follow his heart with wild abandon. “Martin, would you sleep with me?”

The other man choked, arms tightening around Jon’s back. “You— _what_?”

Jon’s face lit on fire. He pulled back to look into Martin’s face. “No! I mean—platonically! Or, uh, romantically? But not—not sexually! Just… oh, you know. Together. Like we did before?”

“Oh.” A slow smile made its way onto Martin’s face. Jon liked that; both Martin’s smile and the fact that he was the one who put it there. “Yeah. You know, I think I’d really like that.”

“Excellent. I think I’ll have enough trouble sleeping tonight without doing it alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got the end of this fic all sketched out, so we're in the home stretch now! Thanks to everyone for all your support; I hope the resolution is satisfying :) All your comments and kudos continue to give me life and inspire me to improve my writing!!
> 
> Special thanks to amp_rs_nd for putting in the work to leave such a sweet comment, corvidcompanion for the genius ::::,( and sophieasaurus for supporting this fic and [**Better Half**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26919670). They, and all my regular commenters, deserve the world-- or at least a really nice dinner and a nap!


	16. Dust Away The Cobwebs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New beginnings (and a few ducks).

Jon woke up slowly. He yawned, blinking in the early morning light, and wondered how such dazzling rays were making it through the gap in his bedroom curtains. Trying to stretch, he found himself cocooned by a material slightly heavier than his weighted blanket. He felt behind him. His hand ran over the contours of an ample stomach and a broad shoulder.

Martin’s stomach pressed solid and reassuring into Jon’s back. One of his arms was draped across Jon’s middle, curled gently around his waist to cup Jon a little closer. The other arm was pillowed beneath Jon’s head.

“Martin…?” Jon breathed, twisting around to face him as best he could while tangled in the other man’s arms.

Bouncy curls were plastered to Martin’s face. In sleep, he looked a little ill at ease. Some dreamed worry bunched up the skin between his squinted eyes and turned down the corners of his mouth. Jon pressed his palm to the other man’s cheek, trying to use his thumb to wipe the wrinkles away. Martin’s face lost some of its tension under his careful movements.

For a moment, Jon allowed himself to luxuriate in their closeness. There were no longer any veneers of accidental dozing or illicit handholding. He asked for permission to spend the night next to Martin and received it, enthusiastically. He had every right to brush his own arm over the sweep of Martin’s spine. Every right to press his ear to Martin’s chest and let himself breathe in time to the soothing rhythm of a heartbeat that, despite all odds, still thumped along as normal.

Warmth seeped from Martin’s body into the cushions and blankets and Jon. The longer he lay curled against Martin’s chest the harder it was going to be to get up. Every movement he made to extricate himself and move out of bed was made ten times harder by the little grasping motions Martin unconsciously made as his human teddy bear moved away.

Leaving Martin to rest on the foldout, Jon made his way to the kitchen. He felt… lighter. For the first time, the realization that the case was over set it. They made it. Not just in one piece, but physically unharmed. They killed a monster bent on murder. Amidst the fear and guilt he felt the first flushes of relief. And there was another, far more literal flush still settled on his cheeks from waking up wound in Martin’s arms.

He decided to channel his sudden good spirits into preparing food, another luxury he’d been trying to let himself enjoy more as of late. Humming to himself under his breath, he bustled around the kitchen, collecting ingredients and monitoring the oven temperature. The soothing familiar process of sifting flour and cracking eggs kept him buoyed on his wave of peace.

He nearly timed it perfectly. When Martin came stumbling into the kitchen, hair mussed and eyes bleary, Jon was hovering in front of the stove with his oven mitts on. He was struck again by how _nice_ Martin looked. Even rumpled from sleep, his mouth turned up into a winning smile and his hair cascaded down to frame his face.

“Morning,” Martin rasped, wandering over to stand just behind Jon and peer over his shoulder.

“Good morning, Martin. Breakfast is almost ready.”

Martin let out a breathy chuckle. “Mhm.”

Jon raised an eyebrow, turning over his shoulder in an attempt to stare Martin down. The sight of him massaging his own cheeks to wake his face up forced him to immediately crack a smile. “Is there something funny?”

“Nah.” Martin shrugged. “Jus’ like the way you say my name. ‘Mah-tin’. S’cute.”

Jon swallowed. He hadn’t noticed. “O-oh. I am… glad you like it?”  
After a moment’s languid blink, Martin nodded. “Should go get ready.”

Jon took a step closer to him. “May I, um—” he opened his arms to Martin.

Cautiously, the taller man reached out and took Jon’s hands in his, cradling them both like thin glass ornaments. Jon snorted. He gripped Martin’s hands and pulled him in for an embrace, clasping his hands against the small of Martin’s back. The pleased little gasp Martin let out was enough encouragement for him to tighten his hold, pressing his face into Martin’s shoulder. He inhaled the scent of worn cotton and let out a deep breath. Tension sapped out of his body as he leaned his weight on Martin. The taller man’s arms wrapped Jon in a perfectly pressured hold.

Behind him, the oven timer blared. They pulled apart so Jon could throw the oven door open. “One moment, Martin— you’ll want to see this.”

He pulled the cast iron out of the oven to reveal a German pancake fully inflated, golden brown and crisp around the edges.

Martin oohed and aahed appropriately, watching in fascination as the edges slowly dropped down to fit the pan. Jon poured a lake of maple syrup into the center and topped the whole affair with a generous sprinkling of powdered sugar. “You, ah, might prefer to go brush your teeth while this takes a moment to cool?”

“Right! Right, just a mo.” Martin hurried off to the bathroom to clean himself up while Jon carried the pan out to the dining table. He put out plates and cutlery and set the kettle back on the hob to finish boiling.

Martin bustled back in, looking considerably more awake and slightly more embarrassed about stumbling around Jon’s home in his pajamas, and took a seat at the table. “This looks delicious. Thank you, Jon. You really didn’t have to cook again.”

Jon collapsed into his own chair. He shrugged and smiled across the table at Martin, trying not to panic at how familiar it already felt to eat breakfast together. “But I wanted to. I don’t usually have people over to cook for, these days.”

He served each of them a slice of the spongy pancake. Martin dug in with gusto, moaning appreciatively. “Oh, God. Jon. Jon, this is _so_ good.”

“It’s essentially bread coated in sugar. I don’t see how it could possibly be bad.”

Martin shook his fists at the sky as if trying to call on some divine muse to help him express himself. “But it’s _perfect_.”

Jon shook his head and chewed slowly. Martin was right, it really had come out quite perfect. “Well, I’m glad you enjoy it. It was one of the recipes I used to cook for friends in university after all-nighters. The rise is always a crowd-pleaser.”

“It’s fantastic. I’ll bet they loved it.” Martin used the tip of his pancake wedge to swipe up the excess syrup on his plate before chomping down on it. He swallowed. Jon was about to offer him another piece, but he spoke first. “Would, uh, now be a good time to talk about things?”

Jon licked his lips and found powdered sugar hovering around his mouth. “Yes. I suppose it would. Uh, what is there to talk about?”

“Well. Um.” Martin continued to tap his fork against his plate, as if by sheer force of will more food would appear to distract him. “Would you like to go out on a date some time?”

Finally, an easy question. “Yes, Martin, I’d like that very much.”

The surprise on Martin’s face was completely unwarranted. “Oh! Ah, well, brilliant. Cool. Nice. Okay, so, we’ll go out, then?”

“That would seem to be the next logical step. When are you free?”

Martin pursed his lips. “I need to head home and do some damage control on my flat. I’m not even sure I turned all the lights out when I left; it’s bound to be in a state. And I’d like to pick up the rest of my clothes. But, um, I’ll be free this weekend?”

“Ah, yes. Right.” Jon had almost forgotten that Martin would certainly be returning to his own home at some point. “Will you need any help with that?”

Martin hesitated. “I dunno. I mean, it’ll only be a bunch of cleaning. And there might be a few dead worms around still. Seems like the sort of thing I should just do alone.”

“I’ll help,” Jon decided, as much for himself as for Martin. “We can call Tim and Sasha to request their assistance as well.”

“Thanks, Jon. That sounds a sight better than wandering around the flat on my own. But, ah, did this weekend work for you?”

He nodded. “Yes. It works perfectly.”

It took some time to collect all of Martin’s various possessions scattered around Jon’s flat. At the doorway, Jon pressed a tin into Martin’s hands. “I threw these together this morning. They’re just shortbread biscuits with a bit of chocolate. Consider it a thank-you for your invaluable support over these past few weeks. And for the scarf, again.”

“Oh, that’s lovely, Jon! Thank you. Um… I’ll see you soon, then?”

“Of course. I’ll join you at your flat in a few hours, I just need to make arrangements with Elias—” he raised his hands against Martin’s incredulous stare, “to take the rest of the week off. In order to assist you. And, ah, to take a rest. I’ve been informed by multiple trusted sources that I could use one.”

Martin nodded approvingly.

“And then I will see you this weekend.”

“Right,” Martin replied, smile still carrying a hint of incredulity. “On our date.”

* * *

Martin arrived ten minutes early to the little tea shop where they’d planned to begin the day. He did himself the favor of not checking through the window to see if Jon arrived even earlier. Instead, he took a moment to give himself a bit of a pep-talk. _You look great_ , he told himself, smoothing down the front of his cashmere sweater. _And Jon’s agreed to a real date, and you’re going to have fun. You’re both going to have fun._

The process of clearing his flat out had been almost unbearable. Not because of the few splattered worm carcasses still pressed into the floor or even the cobwebs built up in the corners, but because of the campaign of subtle touches and glances Jon kept up the entire bloody time. Not even the boisterous arrival of Tim and Sasha, carrying a picnic lunch and a battalion of cleaning supplies, could stop him from brushing Martin’s shoulder and smiling at him at the most inopportune moments.

Martin absolutely loved it.

“Martin!”

There was Jon, on time to the minute, in a button-down and soft cardigan. Martin’s heart did a somersault. He was wearing the scarf again.

On his way over Jon almost broke into a jog. A smile split his face and Martin felt his residual nerves fade away. Their date probably wasn’t going to be perfect, but whatever happened, Jon was just as excited as he was to experience it together.

“Hullo, Jon. You look nice today. And, uh, every day.”

Jon wound his scarf around his hands and rocked on the balls of his feet, tilting his head back to stare into Martin’s eyes. “You too. On both counts. Shall we head in, then?”

Martin pushed the door open, sending a little silver bell tinkling through the shop, and held it for Jon.

“What a gentleman,” Jon murmured with a conspiratorial smirk. Martin noticed that the dark circles under his eyes were fading. Clearly, the time away from the archives was doing him some good.

They stood shoulder to shoulder at the counter, examining the menu, making small talk about tea blends and pastries. Eventually the two of them settled on their orders and staked out a small table in the corner by the window. There was a little vase on it with a cheery mix of fake flowers.

Though Martin was continually worried he’d say something wrong and Jon would just get up and walk back to his flat, somehow they managed to have a nice time. Jon showed him photos of a cat named The Admiral; he showed Jon photos of a cross-stitch pattern he wanted to do with a highland cow. The tea arrived hot and well-brewed. He scanned their corner for waitstaff before telling Jon his biscuits were better. Jon didn’t even wait for their server to turn around before informing Martin he was certain their tea couldn’t hold a candle to his.

Inferior though it may have been, the tea was warm and the biscuits were crisp and midway through their conversation Jon splayed his palm face up on the table and shot Martin a look that was sweeter than the sugar cubes sitting between them. Their fingers twined together like spider silk finding itself.

He insisted on bussing their table. Jon watched with a fond smile as he stacked all their dishes and trotted over to the cart of dirty plates.

As they left the shop, headed for a nearby park where Martin was hoping to see some ducks despite the fact that they were a good way into Spring, he caught Jon’s hand. Slotting their fingers back together, he swung their interlocked hands between them.

Jon turned his head to flash another of those precious smiles. “Thank you, Martin. That was quite nice.”

“Even the tea?”

Jon patted his arm with his free hand. “Never as good as yours, of course. But it was sufficient. The company more than made up for it.”

Grinning down at him, Martin was seized by the sudden desire to take Jon’s face in his hands and kiss him senseless. He found his eyes being continually drawn to the other man’s mouth. He tried to shove the feeling down. They were having a perfectly nice date; there was no need to ruin things by moving too fast.

Oblivious, Jon pointed to the pond they were approaching. “Look, there’s a few birds about. Do we have anything to feed them with?”

They didn’t, but Martin had done his research. There was a small kiosk further into the park selling food and papers and birdseed. They took a bag to the sloping bank and tossed handfuls of the mix into the long grasses by the water’s edge.

One duck came waddling up to them, black eyes fixed inquisitively on the bag in Martin’s hand.

“Do you want to feed it?” he murmured, holding the bag out to Jon, who nodded and stretched out his hand. Martin spilled a pile of seeds into his palm.

Jon crouched down and slowly extended his hand. The duck considered him suspiciously. Step by damp step, it bobbed its way over to examine his offering. When it began to eat, beak tapping against his palm, Jon let out a giggle that had Martin almost falling over onto the grass himself.

“Martin, look at that! I think it might like me. It certainly likes the food.”

The duck paused to scrutinize Jon’s hand before nibling at the spaces between his fingers for the last few seeds.

“Of course it does. You’re, uh, very—likeable?” _God, he was a wreck._

Jon turned his whole torso to level Martin with an incredulous stare. The duck quacked its disapproval. “I suppose I should say thank you?”

“I mean—agh.” Martin pressed a hand to his burning face. “I just meant… I like you. And I think it’s—nice that you’re excited. About the ducks. I don’t know.”

Smirk melting into a gentle smile, Jon got to his feet. He abandoned the duck and walked to stand in front of Martin, reaching out to take his hand with the one that hadn’t just been nibbled by a duck. “Thank you, Martin. I think you’re very likeable. And, well, I happen to like you quite a lot myself.”

Martin’s mouth went dry. He looked into Jon’s deep brown eyes, overflowing with warmth like a hot cup of tea. He brushed back a lock of silvering hair.

“Can I kiss you?”

For a moment, he was certain he’d blurted the words out without thinking. He hadn’t even felt his mouth move. It hadn’t even sounded—oh. He hadn’t been the one to say it.

Martin would have given absolutely anything to freeze the look on Jon’s face in perfect detail in his mind forever. Shining eyes wide with excitement, mouth half-open in an unguarded smile, blush darkening his skin, focus totally on Martin.

“Yes,” Martin murmured. “Please.”

So Jon did.

Kissing Jon felt like coming home, something Martin hadn’t done in far too long. It felt like being wrapped up somewhere safe and warm and being told he was good enough. It felt like taking the first sip of a perfect mug of tea on a chilly morning and deciding to have a good day.

Most of all, it felt like kissing Jon. Martin tried to pour every moment of stuttered affection into the movement of his mouth. The soft press of their slightly chapped lips was so simple. He really couldn’t fathom how it sent shockwaves of warmth running through his whole body.

He leaned into the kiss, clouds of breath mingling in the morning air between them, and felt Jon smile against his lips. For a moment, he pulled back, just for the luxury of seeing a smile Jon gave him on lips Martin had the honor of kissing.

In a world of horror and webs and fire and fear, Martin held Jon close and kissed him long. That was enough to make all the rest feel worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for sticking with this fic, leaving wonderful feedback, giving kudos, recommending it around, and keeping me sane as I move into finals week <3 I love and appreciate every single one of you. Look out for the LAST CHAPTER (*sobs*) coming at you next Thursday! Also, happy Hanukkah :))
> 
> Special thanks this week to SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse, who has left SO many wonderful comments during a week where I really needed the motivations!! Also thanks to riceonrye for their excellent branding and Luxa_Kvothe for [I am so sorry :,)] crying <3 
> 
> I'll give a shout out to all my extra-special repeat commenters in next week's final note, but for now please take all my love and a wish for you to feel safe and warm and good enough (and/or pet a duck) this season.


	17. Out Came The Sun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Martin see some friends and share some gifts.

Jon stepped over the threshold and into a cloud of warmth scented with cinnamon and vanilla. He hovered there for a moment, dazzled by the strings of multicolored fairy lights twinkling along the walls and the dancing flames of lit menorahs. Cheesy Christmas music blasted from the speakers. There was a Yule log crackling in the fireplace and a kinara waiting to be lit later in the month.

With a chuckle, Martin rested an anchoring hand on Jon’s shoulder. “Tim really goes all out for the holidays, doesn’t he?”

As if on cue, Tim appeared in the doorway to usher them in. He was wearing a satin Santa hat and a thick knitted jumper. The sweater showed Krampus, St. Nicholas’s evil counterpart, stuffing an eager child into a burlap sack. “I thought you two would never make it! Jon, you’ve brought us biscuits, haven’t you? Please say yes. Sasha burned ours.”

“I heard that!” Sasha shouted from across the room. She looked cozy in her Hanukkah jumper, which read _Get Lit!_ across the chest. “And I’ll have you know the burning was a team effort!”

Jon shielded himself with the box in his hands. “We’ve brought a bûche de Noël. From scratch.”

Tim swept it out of his hands with a gleeful gasp. “Boss, you shouldn’t have! Just kidding, obviously you should have. I don’t let anybody in without them paying the baked goods tax first.”

“Glad we could pay tribute,” Martin snorted, wrapping his arm around Jon’s waist. Jon leaned into the familiar touch and smiled. Then he rolled his eyes at Tim, just to even things out.

“Oh, come on, Mart-o! You know I would’ve made an exception for you. Care to man the drinks table, by the way? We could use your tea-brewing expertise. Okay, no, only joking, please don’t take the cake away from me!” He pressed the box lovingly to his chest. “Why don’t you two mingle for a bit? I’m going to start up the gift exchange in a bit.”

Jon shrugged off his coat, passing it to Martin, who hung theirs up together by the door. He resisted taking off the plush verdant scarf Martin had knitted him way back during Prentiss’s attacks. It was a familiar comfort, and Jon still wasn’t used to actually attending work functions, even casual ones. Eventually the warmth of the room and Martin’s agile hands won out.

Jon surveyed the party. There was Sasha, chatting with a few older women from the library. Rosie from the front desk was picking over a cheese board with some of their old research colleagues.

Despite Tim’s last-minute approach to invitations and the organization of a gift exchange, he really went all out on hosting. The table was laden with food and drink. He had to push aside a bottle of home-brewed mead and a sliced rack of lamb to make space on one table for the plate of singed gingersnaps Sasha passed him. Their yule log pastry was crammed into the corner of the already precarious dessert table.

A wave from across the room caught his attention. Yukti and Maribel stood together by the tree. Each held a slim flute of champagne, and Yukti raised hers to salute them.

Martin wrapped his hand around Jon’s. “Should we say hello?”

Jon squared his shoulders. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve got Maribel for the gift exchange.” The four of them met in a pleasantly awkward jumble of handshakes and sideways hugs.

“It’s good to see you both,” Maribel said, clasping her hands and smiling at each of them in turn.

Yukti grinned. “This party is a riot, huh? Didn’t know Stoker had it in him. Maribel and I were just trying to figure how much cheese we could fit on one plate before anyone got suspicious.”

“Want us to cover for you at the snack table?” Martin suggested. “Not that anyone would be judging—they just might try and steal back some cheese.”

“Are you proposing we hand over a cut of our profits?”

Jon rolled his eyes fondly as they slipped into a murmured discussion of “hot hush honey”, “making some cheddar”, and “brie-sy money”.

Maribel appeared at his side. “This is her second glass. Should we give them a moment? We could get a head start.”

“On the cheese?” Jon glanced back at Martin, who was busy striking the clumsiest mobster pose he’d ever seen. “I suppose we might as well. This could go on all night.”

He and Mari wandered over to the snack table and began loading up their paper plates with dried fruit, crackers, and wedges of soft cheese.

“It was kind of Tim to invite us,” Maribel mused, flaking some smoked salmon off the bone. “Yukti has been trying to get to know her coworkers better this year. I think she still feels quite isolated sometimes.”

“You know the two of you are always welcome to stop by the archives. I, ah, haven’t heard much from her lately. But I… would like to.”

“What are we talking about?” Yukti interrupted, reaching around Maribel to grab a carrot off a vegetable platter and pop it into her mouth.

“Your terrible table manners.”

Yukti pressed a hand to her chest. “You wound me. I can’t believe you would say this to me on Candlenights of all nights.”

“Is there a specific holiday either of you are celebrating?” Martin asked, nudging up against Jon’s side and stealing a cube of cheddar from his plate.

Maribel shrugged. “Los Posadas, I suppose.”

“The Dongzhi festival is coming up! But tonight I’m celebrating free food and free presents.”

Jon took a swig of hot apple cider, letting out a breath as homey spices coated his throat. “I’ll drink to that.”

“Ah—Jon—” Martin stammered, edging his way between Jon and the table, “would you step aside for a second?”

Jon glanced down at the table. His gaze immediately landed on the black spot crawling its way up the tablecloth. He sucked a breath in through his teeth.

Yukti gasped. “Wait—no, no, wait, I’ve got it.” Before Martin could reach for the spider, she scooped it into her palm, cradling it gently between her hands. “It’s okay. Can someone get the door for me? I’ll find somewhere dry outside.”

After a brief tussle with nerves, Jon set his plate on the table. “Here—I, ah—I’ll get it. This way.” He hurried across the room to the front door and swung it open, plastering himself to the wall outside.

Stepping carefully, Yukti walked past him. She loosed her grip over a nearby shrub. The spider slipped between her fingers and into the foliage below.

“You’re okay,” she murmured, tracking its progress as it righted itself and scooted off under a leaf. “You’re going to be okay out here. Don’t worry.”

Jon stood by the door, shifting his weight from foot to foot. Puffs of steam escaped his mouth. “Yukti? Are you ready to go back inside?”  
She blinked up at him. A warm smile spread across her face. “Yeah. Thank you, Jon. I appreciate the help.” 

They wandered back inside together, shoulders bumping companiably, to rejoin Martin and Maribel by the snack table.

Martin squeezed Jon’s shoulder. “All right?” he murmured, rubbing a soothing hand up and down his arm. Out of the corner of his eye Jon spotted Maribel leaning in to whisper a similar question to Yukti.

He smiled. It wasn’t an especially strong smile, but it wasn’t forced either. Just a quick turn of the lips because he _was_ all right. For the moment, they all were.

Tim hopped up on a chair and beat his glass with a spoon. “Gather round, everyone! It’s time to _present_ your offerings!” He finished with an exaggerated wink and hopped down to preside over the gift exchange circle.

Jon and Martin settled in beside each other on the couch, Jon tucked into the corner with Martin leaning out to block some of the chatter. He loved the way Martin moved around his space at large gatherings. The other man always seemed to know when to put himself between Jon and the action. He also loved the way Martin’s cozy knit jumper fit him, and the way his soft curls brushed the freckles on the back of his neck.

He tapped Martin’s shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“I love you,” Jon whispered, always surprised by the fact that he was just allowed to say those words whenever he wanted to.

The soft intake of breath he heard in return filled his chest with a familiar warmth.

With a shy smile, Martin entwined their fingers. “Love you too.”

“Move aside, lovebirds,” Tim declared, “you’re taking up the whole couch.”

Martin scooted over to allow Tim to flop onto the cushions beside him. Sasha perched herself on the arm rest and smiled down at them.

Tim smacked her shoulder. “Care to start us off, Sash?”

“With pleasure.” She produced an envelope from her pocket and reached across Tim, waving it in Jon’s general direction. “Martin, pass this over, would you?”

Jon accepted the envelope and carefully peeled back the flap, for once unbothered by the number of eyes on him. He was packed in by friends in the middle of a celebration of light and life. He was safe.

Sasha’s gift was a twenty-pound gift card to his favorite local café. Functional, practical, and reasonably personalized. He smiled across the couch at her. “Perfect as always, Sasha. Thank you.”

She grinned and shot a pair of finger guns his way. “You know me. Sasha James, founder and master of the institute gifting circle, unconfirmed psychic. Your turn!”

Jon’s prepared gift sat on his lap, wrapped in tasteful gold-accented paper with very sharp corners. He’d needed two months and incessant help from Martin to finish it. He’d tried to scrap it the night before and just buy a box of chocolates or something, but with Martin’s encouragement, he finished out the project.

He gestured for Maribel to shuffle over from her corner of the circle. She used Yukti’s shoulder to pull herself up before crossing the room, smiling softly at Jon in a way that crinkled the edges of her eyes and made him feel like she wouldn’t hate his gift despite its imperfections.

She peeled back the wrapper paper to reveal a carboard box. Lifting the lid, she let out a soft gasp, smile spreading wider. “Oh, Jon, this is wonderful!” She lifted the scarf out of the box, admiring its twining strands of grey and fiery red. At the bottom were two boxes of high-quality tea, rooibos chai and Early Grey, just in case she didn’t like the scarf.

 _But she’ll love it!_ Martin had said, picking apart a row dotted with dropped stitches.

 _Just in case,_ Jon maintained.

She took no notice of the tea. Wrapping the scarf around her neck, she burrowed into the yarn, pressing her hands into the loose weave. “It is so warm! This is wonderful. Thank you very much.”

While she walked her gift across the circle to present to Rosie, Martin squeezed Jon’s hand in his.

“Told you she would love it,” he murmured, pressing a quick kiss into Jon’s hair. “You’re easy to love.”

Jon relaxed into Martin’s side and reflected on how easy it was to be loved, sometimes.

* * *

The party was winding down. When the ladies from the library left and Tim pulled out a bottle of bourbon, Martin expected the whole thing to go a bit sideways, but everyone seemed content to settle down in front of his little fireplace with a mug of spiked cocoa and trade institute stories as midnight drew closer.

Martin caught Jon yawning out of the corner of his eye and smiled. There was a time when he was reluctant to even speak to Jon at a party. They’d come a long way from that, he decided, chuckling softly as he carded his fingers through the other man’s hair. In return he received a soft kiss pressed to his cheek.

“Think you can hold out a while longer, love?”

Jon gave a lazy shrug. “I wouldn’t mind a nap on Tim’s couch. You can always, ah, wake me when it’s time to go?”

“Carry you to the car, more like.”

The blush that spread across Jon’s face warmed Martin’s stomach more than the bourbon. “Well, I hardly think that will be necessary. But if it is… I trust you, of course.”

Martin wrapped his arm around Jon’s thin shoulders. “I won’t drop you. And don’t worry—we can leave as soon as Tim gets drunk enough for the Father Christmas outfit. I just want to snap a few pictures. Think a minute outside would wake you up a bit?”

Jon wrapped his arms around himself in a mock shiver. “Ugh. If you insist.”

Martin helped him up from the couch, setting his drink aside, and maneuvered him toward the door.

“Leaving already? I haven’t even gotten to make an embarrassing speech about anyone!” Tim wailed from the hearth.

“We’ll be right back in for you to embarrass yourself,” Jon retorted. “Not that you need us around to do that.”

Sasha waved them off, settling back into Tim’s lap and handily distracting him with a candy cane for his hot cocoa.

Martin slung the scarf he knitted all those months ago over Jon’s shoulders and helped him slide his coat on. They stepped out into the frosty December evening. Martin pulled his coat closer around himself, hearing the crinkling of the package he held under one arm.

A mug of cider was still clutched in Jon’s hands. He settled down onto the stoop, took a long sip, and released a cloud of warm breath into the evening air. “You’re right, as always. I do feel a bit more refreshed.”

Martin took a seat beside him, pulling Jon sideways into a soft hug. “Oh, so I’m always right, am I?”

“In the context of an intimate moment at a celebratory event, yes. Don’t try to use my words against me the next time you insist that microwaving water is ‘almost as bad as murder’.”

“It _is_!” Martin sputtered, pressing his face into Jon’s scarf. “But fine. I’ll let my argument stand on its own merits. But only because I like you so much.”

Jon chuckled. Martin felt a calloused palm come up to cup his cheek. Jon’s lips brushed his, warm against the chill of the night. “Good. The feeling is mutual.”

Martin slipped a hand under his coat. “Uh, speaking of which. I got you something. For the holidays, I mean.”

A lopsided smile sprawled across Jon’s face. “You did? Well, you certainly didn’t have to. I thought we planned to exchange gifts at home?”

“I know. And I have a gift for that too! I just thought you might like this one now.”

Jon sighed fondly. “Martin, you know how much I enjoy your gifts, but I hope you also know that the only gift I need is—” midway through the sentence, he seemed to think better of it, stuttering as his brain caught up with the mushy romance of his words.

“Is me?” Martin prompted, already wearing a teasing smirk. He loved Jon’s moments of vulnerability, but he also loved any opportunity to fluster his adorable partner.

“It’s—the gift—spending time with you like this is enough, all right?” Jon hid his blush under the folds of his scarf. “I’m just… happy to have this. I spent the holidays alone last year. And… for a few years before that as well. It’s been a long time since I experienced them like this. So—well—thank you for being here.”

Martin didn’t have an answer except to fold Jon tight in his arms and bury his face in Jon’s hair, pouring all the love he could hold between his arms into a gentle rocking to and fro. When he finally pulled back, cheeks flushed from cold and feeling, he nudged the package in Jon’s hands. “Go on, then. Now that you’ve gotten me all teary.”

The gentleness with which Jon picked apart the messy tissue-paper, studded with star stickers and fastened with patterned tape, was completely uncalled for. Martin waited in nervous anticipation with his eyes glued to Jon’s face.

Finally, the paper unfolded to reveal a mound of thick knit fabric. It was deep blue, a starless evening sky or a calm ocean, and very soft. Jon let out a joyful gasp. “Martin! This is beautiful, is it another—” he picked the gift up as he spoke, and it unfolded in his hands, revealing a pair of sleeves and a series of interlocking cables down the front. Jon’s eyes went wide. “Ah. Ah, I—did—Martin? You… knit me a sweater?”

Martin swallowed. “Uh, yeah! I figured you could use one. You know, to go with the rest. And I thought the color might suit you.”

Jon’s arms were warmer than any scarf. “Thank you,” he whispered into Martin’s shoulder. “Thank you, love. It’s beautiful.” He pulled back to plant a kiss on Martin’s lips, pulling away with a wobbly grin. “When did you ever find the time to make this?”

“Any time you had to stay late at work or got too absorbed in cooking. And on the tube. And whenever I came over here to drop something off for Tim and Sasha without you.” His explanation was interrupted by Jon smothering his face with a cloud of soft kisses.

“You’re a wonder, Martin. This is—you’re—well, I’m afraid I don’t know what to say.”

Martin pressed his hand to Jon’s cheek and ran his thumb over the curve of his lover’s smile. “Why don’t you try it on?”

Jon stripped off his coat, briefly shuddering, and pulled the jumper over his head. It fit perfectly, loose enough for comfort without spilling down over Jon’s hands and interrupting his work.

The smile on Martin’s face felt like it was stuck there with cherry cordial and cider. He transferred some of the sweetness to Jon’s smiling lips. “You look beautiful in it.”

“It is beautiful. And so are you.”

The door opened a crack. “Are you two really going to make out until you freeze to death out there?” Tim called from inside, words a bit slurred but very fond.

Martin helped Jon to his feet. “Missing us already?” he retorted.

The door shut.

Jon leaned into Martin’s side again, the weave of his jumper soft under Martin’s palm. “Get your camera ready.”

“Right.” Martin snuck one last kiss as his hand hovered by the doorknob. “We’ll want to remember this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, you guys, it’s been a wild ride. Here we are, right back where we started from, at an institute party together! I’m taking a break from TMA now to focus on original work. If you’re interested in my writing, check out my backlog, and keep this one in your bookmarks. I’ll come back around with an update here if I start another TMA longfic :) Or find me on Twitter.com at @KahloSmith and vibe out about writing!
> 
> I’d like to give one final shout-out to the amazing commenters who stuck with me and made every update feel worth it. Thank you from the bottom, top, sides, and core of my heart to: shinyopals for making me smile, the_maybe for their enthusiasm, Ixempt for working so hard to leave lovely comments, Pigeonfeatherquill for their truly thoughtful feedback, SmallishWormMasterOfTheUniverse for binge-commenting with feeling, Luxa_Kvothe for their tears and well-wishes, The_Lizard for getting me HYPED to write… and, obviously, from Chapter One through to the end, thank you to shhdontlook for <3 <3 <3
> 
> From everyone who got me started, like Aryashi, Amnesty, and Lemongrass13, to those who kept me going, like awildaceappeared, Cheloya, and littlecrows, THANK YOU for reading and for letting me know this fic meant something to you!
> 
> Even if you don’t see your name up here (there’s a lot of comments and I am a simple woman), I want to thank every single one of you for reading, commenting, leaving kudos, recommending this fic, and generally being a wonderful group of people to share this work with. Your kind words have kept me going through quarantine, through school, and with these last few updates through midterms and finals (grades are in; your well-wishes worked!!). Hopefully I’ll catch you in one last comment section to give you my thanks. It’s been a really great time sharing Weaving My Heartstrings with all of you <3


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